


Wolves of Spring

by fortunatelylori



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate season 8, Arya/Gendry - Freeform, Dark Dany, F/M, Post Season 7, Romance, Slow Burn, War, jamie/brienne/tormund, polical jon, show verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-07-12 13:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatelylori/pseuds/fortunatelylori
Summary: Winter is here and with it, the dragons. When Jon brings Daenerys Targaryen, her armies and her dragons to Winterfell, everyone is thrown in turmoil. The White Walkers are advancing on the living and inside the great keep, people are preparing for battle. The Great war is here but who is, really, the true enemy?Navigating a world of treachery stuck between fire and ice, new alliances will be formed, hearts will be broken and the Stark wolves will fight for the dawn of Spring.A slow burn Jon/Sansa fic mainly, that will involve most of the rest of the characters, althought POVs will be limited. There will be secondary relationship explorations, mainly with Arya/Gendry, a love triangle with Jamie/Brienne/Tormund and, of course, Jon/Dany. There will also be major character deaths but not for a while.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So ... I blame "hug 2.0" for me starting another fanfic. I haven't been able to stick to one writing project for a while so let's hope this one has enough legs to keep me going through the long season break. I need some GOT in my life, even if I have to write it myself. lol  
> FYI, everything in italics is either character thoughts in 1st person or dreams.

Winter had come.

The snow storm had been lashing at men and animals alike for two weeks, covering the ground in thick layers of white. The people of Winterfell had accustomed themselves to shouting just so they could hear each other over the whooshing of the wind and getting by using mostly their knowledge of the great keep, since they were barely able to see two steps in front of them.

Yet, as soon as they had assembled in the courtyard, the storm had stopped. There were more than a hundred people and yet no sound could be heard, aside from the crunching of the snow beneath their feet and the ragged, heavy breaths as the dead cold seeped through even the thickest winter clothing.

Scouts had arrived in the early hours announcing that the King in The North and the Dragon Queen were approaching so every living soul inside the castle’s gates had been summoned by the Lady of Winterfell to welcome them.

By even an extremely generous calculation, Sansa knew they should have arrived hours ago. The morning had come and gone, and Winterfell was still waiting.

The bottom of her cloak rustled as Ghost peered from behind to stand next to her. It still surprised her how silently he moved … Her shadow, as she had started to think of him. Trailing behind her all day long, through the court yards, hallways and food stores, but keeping his distance, cowering from her touch anytime she went to pet him, as she had once done with Lady. 

At night ,though, when she would wake up from one of her terrors or when she would sit by the fire rocking herself, in tears, he would come and place his head on her lap. She would bury her face in his white fur and hold on tight until the trembles subsided and she felt like herself again.

Ghost couldn’t help her now…

A sudden cold wind blew up against her, making her shiver to the very bone. She looked to her right, to Arya. Her sister’s lips had turned blue from the cold and her chin wobbled slightly, as she tried to stop her teeth from chattering. She muttered under her breath and Sansa could only imagine the foul things she must have been sprouting, all directed at her, of course, for making her wear a dress. _It does not suit her,_ she thought _, but needs must._

Bran said he would not join the welcome party and for that Sansa was grateful. The cold could prove fatal for someone in his condition. Ever since he had come back, she had ordered raging fires to be lit in his room at all hours. Not that he seemed to notice. He was impervious to almost everything around him, his face a mask of something far removed from the world around him.

The memory of his blank expression filled Sansa with dread and she instinctively turned to her left wanting to share her fears with whom should have been next to her.

It had always been that way, as far back as she could remember. First came Bran, then Arya, then herself. To her left there was Robb, who was standing next to father. Mother would always stand by father’s side, with Rickon, the youngest, still clinging to her skirts.

She stared at the untouched snow where they would have stood and her stomach twisted in painful knots. An old, terrible panic gripped her and she had to stop herself from running away, to hide. She loathed these moments when the cold fever of fear took hold, and turned her into some kind of wounded animal.

Hadn’t they been here before? On that last time, when they were standing all together before the world unleashed its beasts on them?

Sansa had hoped that her time of waiting on queens was over.

What hurt the most was that this one wouldn’t be coming alone. She would be coming with her … with Jon. Jon, who held her in his arms more fiercely than she had ever been held before. Jon who had almost died so they could stand where they were standing now. Jon, whose heart would burst at the sight of Bran and Arya.

Jon, who after knowing Daenerys Targaryen for only six moons, had bent the knee. The words still rattled around in her brain: _I have pledged our forces_ … _the rightful Queen_ … _Jon Snow, Warden of the North._

Warden of the North … Four words that had in one moment crushed the Northerners dreams of independence and chased any feeling of safety from the fragile harbor Sansa had desperately tried to hold on to, at Winterfell.

Rumors had run amok at the news. The Northern lords voiced their displeasure and anger at what they called their King’s betrayal, his lack of bravery in the face of threats and torture. Even the Little Bear had her doubts though she kept her thoughts to herself. For now …

Their doubts and accusations made her angry for she knew better. Or perhaps she was foolishly hoping she knew what she couldn’t possibly know … _Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game …_

No. She could not do that. Not with Jon. He was the one person that had never betrayed her … could never betray her. This new queen was at fault. He had sworn to keep the North safe from the army of the dead. She must have left him with no other choice.

Beside her, Ghost started growling, his snout curling upwards to reveal large, sharp fangs. His back hunched forward as the furs on his neck stood up and he readied himself for attack.

Before she had the chance to calm him, Sansa heard it. A sharp screeching song. Long and hard, echoing through the sky, getting stronger and stronger as it came closer, shaking the very clouds. The horizon line quickly started to fill with a dark shadow that grew larger until finally its shape became fully formed.

 _A dragon_ … black as night, with wings so big they engulfed the sun, throwing the whole courtyard into darkness for a moment. As it flew right above them, he bellowed loudly, exposing blackened, jagged teeth so large they could tear a man in two.

She heard gasps all around her, as people scrambled not knowing whether to run or stare.

Sansa held her breath for a moment, trying to steady her heartbeat, and dug her hand into Ghost’s back. The monsters were here. _I am a Stark. I must be brave._

Mercifully, the beast rose higher into the sky and began circling Winterfell, as he was joined by another, smaller dragon.

Soon enough, the shrieking of the dragons was joined by the voices of men. A high pitched yodeling, over the sound of thousands of hooves shaking the ground beneath, traveled through the wind, getting closer.

And still closer than that, the hooves of a single horse, ridden hard and fast until it ran past the open gates, into the courtyard. _Jon …_

The sight of him made Arya break from the line and run towards him. Sansa’s legs almost followed suit but she thought better of it. This was their moment. Interfering would have been wrong.

It was a good thing Jon noticed her in time and pulled at the reins hard, stopping the horse inches away from her. His eyes fixed on Arya and he jumped down in one swift movement.

There was no hesitation, no spared moment for thought. They crushed into each other so hard, she feared one of them might have broken something.

Sansa’s smile widened as Jon picked her up and held her, her sister’s arms wrapped around his neck tightly.

“You’re skinnier than I remember,” he said.

“You’re not,” she said and Sansa thought she heard her voice breaking a little. Not that Arya would ever admit to crying, of course.

Moments past and still they held on to each other. Sansa looked around and realized that everyone in the courtyard was staring at them.  She could feel tears stinging her eyes and she let them fall freely. There was no fear from tears of happiness, after all. All of her family was finally back together. And no flying beasts or yodeling men could rob her of that.

Finally, Jon dropped her down and held her by the shoulders. He looked at her intently, as if trying to make sure she was real. “I thought I’d never see you again, little sister,” he said, exhaling a ragged breath.

Arya shrugged and playfully nudged him. “More fool you, then. I’ve been hard at work with my needle, I’ll have you know.”

Sansa didn’t understand what it all meant but Jon seemed to. He started laughing and pulled her close again, mussing her hair.

A painful knot caught in Sansa’s throat. Arya’s face … she looked like that little girl she had grown up with so long ago. Her annoying, messy sister who caused havoc everywhere she went. The sister she had thought she would find in the crypts when they were reunited.

She hadn’t been there that day, replaced by a steely eyed, cold creature that barely blinked when she talked. Yet here Arya was again. Jon had brought her back somehow.

As she continued to look at them, Jon’s gaze met hers. She tried to avert her eyes but Jon’s pointed look kept her in place. After a moment, he slowly released Arya and began walking towards her.

She had intended on welcoming him with a cool smile and perhaps a quick peck on the cheek but, as he moved closer, she felt her arms opening, quite without intention.

He looked tired, she now realized. Worn down and burdened, his hair wet and musty from the storm he no doubt endured on his way from White Harbor. Yet his eyes were as dark as ever and just as intense. Sharp and resolute, she could feel them cutting through her, making her defenses crumble.

He walked straight into her open arms and pulled her to him, as her arms wrapped around the small of his back. He smelled of dried up sweat and horse manure, and yet she buried her face into the furs of his cloak, allowing herself a deep sigh of relief. He was home.

“How are you?” he whispered.

Before she could answer, a flash of white veered through Sansa’s vision. Her eyes snapped open at this most unwelcome interruption.

A silver haired woman, atop a white horse stood in the middle of the courtyard, surveying everything around her as if it belonged to her. Sansa did not know when she had ridden through the gates but she was not alone. A dozen men surrounded her. Strange, copper skinned men with long braided hair, dressed in leather and little else. Most unsuitable for winter, she remarked. They stood tall and foreboding but she could see the slight tremble in their muscles. _Southern armies_ , she thought, _with southern blood._

The dragon queen remained atop her horse and Sansa thought for a moment that she was looking at her. But it was Jon’s back she was really staring at. Her large violet eyes carried unspoken familiarity and, perhaps, even possessiveness.

It only took that look for Sansa to understand. She had a fresh, girlish kind of beauty, Jon’s queen, with rosy, plump cheeks, long silver hair like all her Targaryen ancestors and perfect, unblemished skin. Her unnaturally colored eyes and full lips must have moved many a man from their paths. _Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried._

Her back stiffened and she released Jon quickly, stepping away from him. She could feel her jaw clench as a heated anger rose inside her but she willed her face to relax and her eyes from wondering back to Jon’s confused expression.

He finally turned and looked up at his queen. He cleared his voice before looking back at her, his posture and his tone rigid as he spoke: “Sister … Allow me to introduce you to Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen …the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The dragon queen’s chin rose high at Jon’s announcement and her face brimmed with pride. She looked down on Jon and smiled sweetly before turning her steely gaze to Sansa.

She could hear sharp gasps coming from behind her, people whispering in hushed tones. No one in the courtyard moved and Sansa could feel their eyes on her, measuring her, waiting to gage her reaction.

She took a deep breath, steading herself for what was to come and bowed her head. She let her entire body fall almost to the ground in a deep curtsey. “It is an honor to welcome you at Winterfell, Your Grace.”

She remained in her position a moment longer as the rest of the lords and ladies made sense of what she was doing. In quick succession, they all bowed their heads as the dragons up high screeched in approval.

It was done.

“You may rise, Lady Sansa, my lords and ladies.” Daenerys voice was sweet and filled with magnanimity.

As Sansa stood, she could see the steel in her eyes had been replaced with warmth. Where Cersei would have been haughty and cold, the dragon queen’s mood change revealed a far less cautious nature.

 She dismounted her horse, helped along by a tall knight with golden hair. He was older than the rest of her retinue and distinctly Westerosi. Ser Jorah Mormont, she suspected, the man Sam had told them he had cured of greyscale.

Daenerys walked straight to her, offering a wide, dazzling smile. “It is a pleasure to finally meet Jon’s oldest sister.”

She reached out and took both her hands into hers.

The closeness must have unsettled Ghost because he inched closer and growled at their guest, baring his teeth. Sansa had to stifle a small chuckle at her defender’s efforts. “Ghost, sit! You’re being rude.”

“What a fierce protector you have!” Daenerys said, laughing and eyeing him intrigued. “I don’t think I’ve seen a wolf grow this large before. Have you had him long?”

“He’s a direwolf, Your Grace. And he is not mine. He’s Jon’s.”

“You never told me you owned a … direwolf,” she said, admonishing him for his lack of oversight. Then she reached out to pet the animal but Ghost stood up on all fours, growling yet again, forcing her to withdraw her hand quickly.

“Ghost, that’s enough!” Jon said. “Com’ ‘ere!”

The white direwolf bowed his head and followed his master’s command, sitting himself at Jon’s side.

Daenerys looked at Jon, as if expecting him to say something but he remained silent, burying his hand in his direwolf’s furs.

“Your Grace,” Sansa quickly said, trying to ease the tension. “We have prepared a small feast to celebrate your arrival. It’s modest by any standards, I’m afraid, but perhaps you would allow me to escort you inside. I could tell you how Jon came to have a direwolf, if you like.” She finished the sentence, smiling sweetly.

It had the desired effect as the queen’s sour expression changed and she nodded. “I should enjoy that.”

_Sometimes the best way to baffle your enemies is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you._

***

The Great Hall was breaming with people. The freezing cold outside had been replaced by the stifling heat of too many bodies cramped in a far too small room. All the lords of the North were there, together with their retinue as well as Daenerys Stormborn’s ever growing host of advisors and personal guard of Dothraki.

Voices covered each other in a constant racket, both tiring and overpowering, under an agonizing quartet of lute and drums, playing an undefined tune that the local band of minstrels had hobbled together.

The uneasy proximity had most of the guests on edge. He knew well that the smallest thoughtless gesture could turn the feast into a bloodbath. And if a bloodbath was to be had, he would be the first causality. The murderous stares of the Northern lords left him in no doubt of that.

When he had entered the hall and was greeted with their backs as if he were marked by greyscale, he felt nothing. His training as the Snow of Winterfell had left him well equipped to handle people’s rejection. The people’s distain and disgust were more familiar to him than their praise and, in any case, it was the price he was willing to pay to save the North, even if it might hate him for it.

He had retreated to the darkened corner of the room, ale in hand as he had done on most occasions when he had been allowed to attend the family’s feasts.

And yet his entire body was aflame. His muscles clenched painfully and all the ale in Westeros could not drown the dull pain. It had started the moment Sansa had let go of him in the courtyard and continued to torment him even now when he starred at her across the Hall, willing her to look at him. She spared him not one glance and her indifference was one price Jon Snow found he was unwilling to pay.

She was still talking to the dragon queen, smiling and moving her around the hall as if she were nothing more than a puppet. Being the center of such unadulterated attention was something Daenerys Stormborn took for granted so she failed to notice how Sansa was walking her around, keeping her away from her retinue and from anyone of real importance in the room. Instead she was being paraded in front of old hens and young squires whose trembling bows were sure to impress the queen who was used to everyone kneeling at her feet.

As proud as he was of her ability to sense what really moved their new ally, seeing them together could only make his failure more painfully clear. He had left Winterfell to get the Targaryen queen and her dragons to commit to the fight against the Night King. He had succeeded in that even when he, himself, doubted that he would be able to.

But no amount of days spent at Daenerys’ side or nights spent in her bed could rid him of his true disease. His madness twisted his mind driving him back again and again, across the sea, through the snow covered trail of the King’s road and into the courtyard of Winterfell for a glimpse of red hair caught in a gust of wind or heart shaped face wet with tears he wanted nothing more than to wipe away.

He had ridden hard and fast from Winterfell, hoping to severe the string that so inextricably tied him to her only to ride back like a mad man 6 moons after, pulled by a thousand invisible chains that distance had grown for fear of losing her. If only he could allow himself to tug at those chains now and bring her to him…

As if the thought had a chance of becoming real, Sansa and Daenerys turned to look at him.

Jon felt the queen’s eyes searching for his own, staring at him with that wide eyed expression she had reserved for him alone since the moment they had exited the cave at Dragonstone.

He returned the look in the way he had done every so often since the day he awoke to find her sitting on his bed.

She came near him and he studied her pretty features and the comely curves of her body, forcing himself to forget where his real thirst lay. If only her eyes were blue instead of violent. If only her hair shone in the candle light like fine rubies. If only he could look at her radiant face and see his entire future laid bare. He would gladly spend the rest of his days on his knees for that queen.

“What are you thinking about?”

He cleared his voice and took a moment to regain his senses. “About tomorrow,” he said. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Daenerys smiled and came to stand next to him, her arm brushing against his own. “Oh …Tomorrow is still a long way away, Jon Snow. I’d rather you thought about tonight.”

She flapped her lashes at him and he gave her the small smile she was expecting.

“Your sister has prepared the rooms in the east wing for me. The very same that Aegon the Conqueror occupied when he visited Winterfell. Quite appropriate, don’t you think?”

They were the same rooms that Ramsey Bolton had claimed as his own when he took Winterfell. He wondered if Daenerys would find that quite as appropriate, if she knew. “Sansa pays a great deal of attention to such things.”

“Yes … I like her very well. I feared she might prove difficult. I’m glad to see that the stories I heard were wrong.”

“What stories?” The words came out a bit rougher than he would have liked.

“I understand that you and her were not close as children. That she treated you badly …”

Jon clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain silent.

Daenerys waited but when no response came, she put her hand on his arm. He shifted his position, unsettled by the familiarity she was so freely displaying in public.

“Tyrion said she was following her mother’s lead. That Lady Stark never cared for you.” She looked at him for a long while, with warm, compassionate eyes. “I am sorry. I know very well what it’s like to feel estranged from your own family.”

 _Estranged … estranged would be a blessed relief_ , Jon thought. Or would it? Would he trade the torment that seared his flesh? If he did, he would be as empty and cold as on the day he was brought back from the dead.

But trade it, he must. He had to when the very thought brought dishonor and shame to the one person he wished to spare from such things. “Catelyn Stark was a trueborn lady. As is Sansa.”

Daenerys smiled softly. “I admire your loyalty. I doubt I would be as kind if I had been in your position.”

As he looked across the Hall, he saw Sansa turn her head in his direction. Her empty stare made him quickly remove himself from the queen’s embrace.

It didn’t make much of a difference, though. Sansa simply averted her eyes and smiled as she saw Tyrion Lannister approaching her.

Seeing them talking set Jon’s teeth on edge. He still remembered his offensive jab at her expense when he first arrived on Dragonstone. _Does she miss me terribly?_ The thought that he might bring up the marriage she had been forced into almost made Jon move towards them, when Daenerys grabbed his arm.

“Where are you going?” she said, not all too pleased.

He drew breath, trying to disguise the frustration her words caused. “I’ve sat in the corner for far too long, Your Grace. My people need to see me.”

He removed himself slowly from her grip. “It’s not wise for us to be seen so close to each other,” he offered by means of an explanation.

Thankfully, she seemed to accept it, as she composed herself and took a step back. “You are right, of course. I think I will retire for the day. Come to my room later?”

Her expression gave Jon no option but to nod.

She smiled at him before she left, giving him a soft look that held the promise of the pleasures to be found in her bed. Aye … the dragon queen was a skilled lover, he knew all too well. The tales of her bed fellows, both male and female, had informed him on how exactly she had acquired those skills. But the undulating form of her hips as she moved through the darkness of the hallway was but a mere shadow as soon as he turned around.

By the time he had reached Sansa, Tyrion was already making good use of his famous wit. The sincere laugh he extracted out of her made Jon unreasonably angry.

“Lord Tyrion,” he said, forcefully.

“Ah!” Tyrion said, pointing his goblet of wine at him. He was already in his cups, judging by how unsteady his footing was.  “Jon Snow, Warden of the North, finally materialized from the dark recesses of the Great Hall. No one broods quite like the bastard of Winterfell.”

“And no one drains a castle’s barrels of wine like the imp of Casterly Rock,” Jon said, forcing a smile.

Tyrion bellowed out a good nature laugh. “A very cruel jab, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sansa?”

“Very,” she said, smiling.

“However shall we punish him? You wouldn’t happen to have some sheep shift on you?”

They both laughed at what Jon assumed was a joke at his expense. Luckily, Sansa took pity on him.

“That’s the vulgar word for dung,” she explained. “But not to worry. You are safe from Lord Tyrion’s revenge. He’s not likely to reach your room from the east wing.”

She paused to look at him, with the same infuriatingly neutral expression she seemed to be reserving just for him. “Unless, of course, you plan on changing rooms in the middle of the night. In which case, I would check the mattress if I were you.”

She delivered the blow with a sharp smile and a small curtsey before taking her leave.

“She’s much changed, your sister,” Tyrion commented, hungry eyes following after her. “But still as beautiful as ever.”

Jon’s expression darkened as he looked down on him. The dwarf was making it increasingly difficult to remember that, at one time, he had actually liked him.

Tyrion shook his head and shrugged. “No desire for conversation, I see. I will go watch you brood from afar, then. You do it so well; it’s almost an art form.”

As Tyrion rejoined the bold headed Varys at the tables, Jon remained in place, nailed to the floorboards beneath.

This was harder than he had thought. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what Sansa imagined he had done or was doing. He needed to speak to her alone but as he looked around the room, she was nowhere to be seen. Brienne of Tarth was also missing and knowing that she wouldn’t be alone did go a short way towards steadying his worries. With so many strangers drinking themselves into a stupor inside and outside the Great Hall, it was not safe.

“Bored yet?”

Finally a voice that could bring a smile to his face. He turned around to see Arya looking at him, her mouth curled up in a sly smile. He had missed that smile for far too long.

“Sansa asked the kitchen maids to bring some food to your study,” she said. “She thought you’d like to spend some time alone with us.”

Jon exhaled in relief. “I can think of nothing better.”

“Want to make a run for it?” she said, her big, green eyes sparkling mischievously, the way they used to when she was just a child.

She did a good job of pretending, he gave her that but he could see through the small cracks. In the way her upper lip twitched ever so slightly or her gaze narrowed and became harder as she looked around the room. There was a barely contained anger there and something else that Jon had not thought he would ever see … Hatred.

Breath hitched in his chest as Ollie’s face engulfed hers right before him. Features twisted in anger and betrayal, tears streaming down his cheeks, frozen in that moment right before Jon sent him to his death. He closed his eyes quickly and chased it away.

There was barely any child left in her, he thought.  She must have been through so much, seen things that no one her age should have. But she was still Arya.

He looked at her from beneath his brow with that incredulous look that had always spurred her on to prove him wrong. “Are you sure you’re quick enough?”

She grinned from ear to ear. “I can be quick.”

Jon watched her as she ran out of the Great Hall and followed her at pace. Little sister was home now. He would make sure that she lived a happy life and be well.

***

Bran’s eyes were milky white, pupils gone, his head tilted back and his body trembling slightly. He was a rail thin boy with spindly limbs and barely a shadow on his cheek and yet he seemed almost ancient, sitting lifelessly in his wheelchair, covered in thick furs.

Jon watched him in shock at how changed he truly was. When he had walked into the room, he was greeted by a blank expression and a simple: “Hello, Jon,” delivered in a monotone, instead of the wide eyed, freckled face of the innocent little brother he was expecting.

Jon had seen a warg before. But Orell had been nothing like this. He was always full of anger, suspicion, jealousy, his raven eyes watching everything.

Bran, on the other hand, seemed not all there, somehow. As if he had lost himself through the millions of souls he was using to watch the world.

“How long does he stay like this for?”

“It depends,” Sam said, a soft, comforting smile on his face. “Minutes sometimes. The longest I’ve seen was three hours, more or less.”

Jon looked at him in disbelief, concern tugging at his brow. “Three hours?”

“He’s looking for the Night King. He says he can’t find him. Hasn’t been able to for weeks. It troubles him.”

Jon nodded. If things were as Bran said … If he was this Three Eyed Raven that could see everything that had ever happened and everything that was happening, it could only mean that the Night King was hiding on purpose.

He closed his fists tightly. He was coming for them, for all of them. He could feel it in his bones. The Long Night was here.

“Thank you, Sam,” he said, patting his old friend on the shoulder. “Thank you for staying with him.”

“I like it, really,” Sam said, his small, round eyes gleaming childishly in that way of his. “I can search for things in my books and he can look to see if they’re true. We haven’t found much just yet … Only that wights die when their maker is killed.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “I found that out when I went beyond the wall.”

“I still can’t believe you did such a stupid thing,” Arya said from across the table, biting a large piece out of a loaf of bread.

“I needed to convince Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen that the army of the dead was real.”

“Cersei can fuck off and die screaming,” Arya said, forcefully stabbing a piece of roasted venison and shoving it into her mouth. “As for the dragon queen, your word wasn’t good enough for her?”

Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb. He couldn’t have this conversation now, not when she looked intent on murdering the food on her plate and cursing like a sailor. “Since when do you talk like that? If Sansa hears you …”

“Sansa forced me into this stupid, itchy dress. She’s not allowed to tell me anything for a long fucking time.”

“Where is she?” he asked, the words struggling to come out.

Arya shrugged, dragging the long sleeves of her dress through the juices left on the plate, as she reached for the tankard of ale. “She said she’d entertain the lords so we can have our meal in peace.”

He watched her down the liquid in one smooth movement and put it down as if it were nothing at all.

“What happened to you, Arya? Where did you go?” he asked. “Tell me the truth now.”

“What do you mean?” she said, the look of innocence plastered awkwardly on her face. “I told you. I stayed with the silent sisters until I found out you took back Winterfell. Then I came home.”

“Aye … that’s what you said. Did they also give you that dagger you’re hiding as a farewell present?”

Arya pulled on the sleeve of her dress, visibly shaken. “No …”

“Who gave it to you then?”

“Jon … maybe we can talk about this another time,” Sam intervened, speaking in a hushed tone.

Arya was hiding something, he could tell. And Sam knew it. … As he looked at them, they both averted their eyes.   _They don’t trust me_ , he realized and a fresh pain took root in the pit of his stomach. The only two people in the world that had always looked at him and saw a friend and a brother, instead of a bastard … They now looked at him and saw traitor’s blood.

He gave out a frustrated, angry chuckle. _That’s what you get for playing the King, Snow … You should have left well enough alone, gone south and waited for the end of the world like the Northern Fool you are._

 “Did she say something about me? While I was away?”

“Who?” Arya asked.

“Sansa …” he said softly.

“You don’t have to worry about that. She took your side when the lords where planning to behead you the moment you got back. Convinced them to bow to your queen …”

“She’s not my queen!” He said the words hurriedly, spitting them out.

“ … to bow to Daenerys Targaryen. Told them you were …” Arya searched for the words and then did her best to imitate her sister’s formal tone, “delivering salvation to our doorstep.”

Arya laughed and shook her head. “I swear, reading all those fancy stories turned her brain to mush. But it worked …”

Jon had no doubt it did. Sansa had a way of making the best out of any situation, however little she liked it or approved of it. When she thought he would lose the Battle of the Bastards and he didn’t listen to her, she convinced Littlefinger to bring the Knights of the Vale. And now that the North was once again faced with a Targaryen conqueror, she had turned the dragons into saviors.

But how Sansa had gotten the Northern Lords to accept Daenerys wasn’t what gnawed at him.

He still clung to the hope that she might understand why he did what he did, even when Sam and Arya didn’t.

Sam had left the Wall before he died. He hadn’t seen how he had changed. And Arya knew him when he was but a green boy, drunk on songs of honor.

But Sansa … she knew him now, the man he had become. The mangled mess that had been dragged from the grave but still …She had said that he was a Stark to her, the thing he had wanted to hear since the moment he could hear anything. Did she regret saying it? Had he lost her too? … The little bit of her that he was allowed to claim, at least?

***

The fire crackled wildly in the hearth, licking at the blackened stone walls but the bitter wind of storm was raging outside and the freezing air was seeping through every crook and cranny, rattling at the wooden window panels. Not even the heated walls of Winterfell could keep it at bay.

Sansa shivered and wrapped the furs around her tighter, bringing her legs to her chest, despite sitting so close to the hearth that the hot blaze fell on her cheek, warming it past comfort. She brought the goblet of wine to her mouth with a trembling hand and took one sip and then another.

She told herself that it was the cold that made her tremble so but the claws of fear that sent piercing, chilling needles through her body told her otherwise.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Brienne away. Maybe it would have been better to take her at her offer of standing on guard, outside the door. But the woman had made her so angry, springing out of nowhere to stop that …

Sansa rubbed her upper left arm forcefully for perhaps the hundredth time that night but the burning sensation of fingers digging into the flesh wouldn’t go away. It had happened so fast. She was just leaving the Great Hall when the Dothraki came straight for her, grabbed her arm and pushed her to the wall.

She struggled to escape but the more she did, the more his fingers closed in around her arm like a vice. He laughed at her flimsy attempts and spoke hoarsely, spewing words at her she didn’t understand. The memory of his sour, rancid breath turned her stomach even now.

It had only taken a firm hand from Brienne to push him away. She stood between her and the man with her sword half drawn and he had backed away, looking horrified and spitting on the ground.

Sansa could feel the fury growing inside of her and when Brienne turned to her, with a concerned look and a: “You shouldn’t be out here alone, my lady,” she pushed her away.

Who was she to tell the Lady of Winterfell how she should walk the hallways of her own home, she had said. Everyone thought she was so weak and broken that she needed protection at all times … And, once again, they were proven right.  While using all of her strength, she was unable to do what Brienne had done with one movement of her arm.

She sighed deeply and took another sip of wine. _Mother would be disappointed_ , she thought and the wine tasted like bitter iron in her mouth. She had been rude and ungrateful. She had sworn a solemn vow to her knight and she was failing at that vow by behaving like a child.

Ghost stirred at her feet and his ears prickled up at the knock on the door. It jolted her and she held her breath. She released the air slowly and, as Ghost stood up, she put a finger to her mouth willing him to remain silent.

For a moment, she thought he had given up but then there was another knock followed by a soft: “Sansa” that stirred her belly most unpleasantly.

She kept quiet and did not move, lest the chair creek but Ghost yelped just loud enough for him to hear and tilted his head at her with what she swore was a look of satisfaction.

“Traitor!” she mumbled at the direwolf before letting her legs fall to the floor and straightening her back.

“Come in,” she said, pulling the piece of fabric from the nearby table and starting to work the needle and thread through, just to give her hands something to do.

Jon walked in slowly and closed the door behind him.

She continued to sow, paying him no mind. But she could hear his footsteps drawing nearer, stopping just in the middle of the room.

The silence dragged on for a few moments until he finally spoke.

“I thought you might be asleep …”

His voice filled the room, deep and warm. It invaded her, tempered her anger. And she couldn’t allow that.She stabbed the needle through and drew it slowly into the air, making a perfect stich.

He cleared his voice and she could hear him shift. He was uncomfortable. _Good._

“Arya … she told me about what you did with the lords … Thank you.”

She strained her eyes as she pulled the thread again, trying to line the new stitch perfectly next to the other. Even in the half darkness, she saw that it hadn’t come out right.

“No need to thank me,” she said. “I just postponed matters, that’s all. You’ll need to talk to them tomorrow at the council. Convince them that you did the right thing.”

He gave out a small, miserable chuckle. “I don’t know about being the right thing but it was the only thing I could do.” His voice sounded almost pleading just then and she had to will herself not to look at him.

“If you say so …”

He came towards her. “Sansa … will you put that thing down and look at me? We both know you’re not getting any sowing done in the dark.”

She gritted her teeth and drew her thumb over the pattern. She focused on the intricate, silvery weirwood bark that was beginning to take shape, twisting it in her hand so it would glimmer under the firelight, until she could feel his breath falling on her cheek … her neck. Her skin prickled at the sensation. He was standing so close …

She finally dropped the fabric into her lap and looked up at him. His eyes searched her for answers, a storm of frustration and feelings bubbling under the surface,. For a moment, she felt her fingers itching to reach out and smooth the crease that formed between his brows. He was too close.

She got up quickly, taking the goblet of wine with her and moved toward the fireplace. She took a big gulp of wine and steadied herself, before turning to look at him. “Jon, this has been a long, tiring day so … tell me what it is you want to hear from me so I can go to bed.”

He looked her up and down and swallowed hard.

She was instantly reminded that she had been wearing only her white shift underneath all those furs and she brought her arms forward, crossing them awkwardly.

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I know you’re angry and you have every right to be. But you have to trust me. I did it for you,” he said and paused for a moment. “For … the North.”

The knife twisted in Sansa’s fresh wounds. “For the North?” she said incredulously, her voice shacking. “You bent the knee and gave away our independence for our own good. Is that what you’re saying?”

”There was no other way. I tried … believe me, I tried …“ He shook his head and sighed: “She’s volatile, changeable … Every time I thought I convinced her, that she understood what was at stake … it all came back to that. If I hadn’t bent the knee, she wouldn’t have come … and we need her dragons and her men if we are to survive.”

 _Liar_ , she thought. She could see the guilt and the secret written plainly on his face. _Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game …_

She was almost frightened by how quickly her armor fell into place as she moved closer to him. She could feel no knives now, no uncomfortable twists in her stomach. She spoke calmly, measuring her words. “In his letter, Tyrion mentioned three dragons. Where’s the third?”

He grimaced, unsettled by the question. “It was lost.”

“Lost …,” she said, circling him slowly, forcing him to turn his head to follow her. “I heard her refer to the dragons as her children. So what happened? Did she misplace her child, abandon it … did his brothers eat him?”

“The Night King killed him.”

“Ah! So one third of this miraculous weapon you have acquired for the preservation of the North was defeated after one single encounter with the enemy.”

“Aye! But not before they burned hundreds of wights with one single breath. Two is still better than nothing.”

“Let’s hope it’s a very short war, then.”

“What would have me do? She came beyond the wall for me! Lost one of her dragons for me!”

 _For me ..._ Her face twisted with disgust, no longer able to hide. “Is that why you did it, then? Gratitude?”

He exhaled in frustration. “She took my ships. She took my weapons. How long do you think before she took my head and laid waste to the North?”

She had promised herself she would remain calm but it was no use. She couldn’t properly play the game … not with him.

“I told you not to go! I told you it was a trap!”

 “And how would we have fought the Night King then? With our pretty needle work?” he said, grabbing the fabric from the table and throwing it to the ground.

His question remained unanswered and Sansa stared at her crumpled work, feeling daggers cutting deeply through what remained of her armor.

When he broke the silence, his voice was low and soft again.

“She’s the best chance we have.”

Sansa blinked quickly, swallowing back the tears that were threatening to come out. He had promised he would protect her, look after her. And now he had discarded her as easily as he had thrown that fabric on the floor. _I’m a stupid girl, with stupid dreams who never learns._

She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, lest her legs buckle under her. She took another sip of wine and she had to drag the words out: “She was very beautiful … or so I’ve heard …”

“Sansa …”

“They say Robb met her after a battle, when she was cutting a man’s leg off. It must have been quite the amputation,” she scoffed.

“He had promised to marry one of the Frey girls. He needed Walder Frey’s men if he was to march on King’s Landing to avenge father … to save me. But one look at Talisa Maegyr made all that seem less important, I’m sure …”

“That’s not what this is. I know you think I didn’t listen to you when you warned me about Robb and father but I did.”

“Did you?” she said and she hated how frail her voice sounded, how gutted. “I told you to outsmart the dragon queen, not fuck her!”

He drew a sharp breath and his eyes widened. He couldn’t say anything … wouldn’t say anything and her entire body shook as she looked at him. Nails dug into the flesh of her palm. Even now, she had hoped he would deny it.

 _Stupid girl._ Did she really think a few hugs and a forehead kiss would keep him true to his word? What was a vow to a silly sister he had grown up disliking compared to the warm body of the most beautiful woman in the world?

 “I hope she’s worth it, Jon.”

“It was the only way …”

“If you say that one more time, I shall scream!” She could feel herself snapping before the anger pushed her off the bed and towards him. “I can’t bear the lies any longer! Just admit you fell in love with her!”

His nostrils flared at the accusation. “I don’t love her!”

“So you would use a woman to get her to help you, bed her and then discard her when she’s no longer of use?”

“Seven hells!” he yelled, closing the gap between them.  

“I’m guilty either way, aren’t I? If I love her, I’m a traitor and if I don’t, I’m a monster!”

His eyes were incandescent with rage and his hot, ragged breath fell on her face in hot waves that sent shivers through out her body. She thought it was fear but as her labored breaths matched his own, she found she didn’t feel the need to run or cower in fear. Instead, she was nailed to the spot, glaring at him.

It was Jon who backed down first, dropping his head to the ground and stepping away, leaving her suddenly feeling very cold.

“You can hate me if you want,” he said. “But I was at Hardhome. I watched the thousands we left behind on the shore. I saw how the army of the dead swarmed on them like flies. I saw them fall, breathing like the rest of us. And I saw them rise, cold eyed and bloodied like the rest of them.”

He looked at her. Haunted and in pain, he hunched over as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders.

“I would have brought a thousand dragons to the North and fucked all their mothers to stop that from happening to the people I love.”

“And what happens after, Jon?” she asked softly, all safe anger abandoning her. “After the war is over, how will I bear it when I have to watch her take …” She stopped herself and turned her head, treacherous tears falling rapidly from her eyes. “ … take everything I hold dear away from me.”

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” he said. “No one will take that from you. I promise!”

She couldn’t suppress a small, bitter laugh at the sincerity of the words she saw reflected in his comforting expression. “You’re a fool.”

“Sansa, I …”

She shacked her head violently. “No more, Jon. Please. Go to your queen. No doubt she’s expecting you.”

He flinched and closed his eyes as if she had just spat on him. For a moment, she thought of apologizing but her lips remained still and she watched him turn away from her.

When he had left and no sound could be heard from outside the door, Sansa allowed herself to fall on the bed and muffled her uncontrolled sobbing into the pillow.

***

_“Ghost!”_

_She could barely hear her voice over the storm. She pulled her cloak closer to her body and advanced, trudging through thick layers of snow._

_She was sure she had seen him, running to the godswood._

_She had to shield her face as the sharp flakes lashed at her skin like a thousand thorns, all hitting her at once. Cold tears streamed down her face and she could barely breathe._

_“Ghost! Come here!” she shouted._

_In the distance, she heard him howl. Loud and desperate, drowning the raging winds. It kept going on and on._

_“Ghost!” she screamed and she started running. She tripped over her skirts and fell to her knees. Her hands dug deep into the frozen ground and she crawled through the snow, her hands numb and rubbed raw as she went. “I’m coming!”_

_In front of her, the bark of the trees glittered with heavy layers of ice, bending and snapping as they danced back and forth._

_A sharp, spine tingling screech drowned out the gale and howl and from the godswood, a giant dragon arose. His terrible shrikes pierced her ears and in a moment, she saw him bringing forth fire from his mouth, engulfing the godswood. Ice melted and bark cracked, ready to bring the trees down._

“Sansa”

_She stood up and the fire blew towards her, the hot air hitting her, drying up her lips and eyes. Slowly she began walking again. “I’m coming.”_

“Sansa”

She awoke breathless, heart beating out of her chest. She couldn’t see through the darkness but as she attempted to draw air, a hand pressed tightly against her mouth. It was cold and smelt of dirt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a more dialogue heavy chapter than I usually write but it couldn't be helped. There's a lot of talking that all these people need to do.

She wrapped her fingers around the arm that was forcefully pressing her head into the pillow, trying to set herself free, her muffled cries becoming louder. The sharp little whimpers filled her with dread and shame at how frantic they were and how utterly powerless they betrayed her to be. She shut her eyes tightly, inhaling the scent. There were no traces of lavender oils and blood. _No. It’s not Ramsay_. _Could never be Ramsay_ , she thought. _He is dead._

As it dawned at her that she had not closed the door before collapsing on the bed, she felt nauseous. How could she have been so stupid? The Dothraki must have followed her and …

“Sansa, it’s me.”

She could not hear the words at first but slowly they began to register and reverberated through her addled mind. She squinted trying to make sense of what was in front of her and Arya’s frame began taking shape. Sansa exhaled in relief, air bursting out of her lungs and out her nose so quickly it made her dizzy. It was Arya! It was only her sister.

Her strange, crazy sister! As relief gave way to anger, she scratched at the skin of her hand until Arya removed it.

“Gods, Arya! You scared me half to death! What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to scream,” she said, matter of factly. Sansa watched in a daze as she quickly walked to the chair closest to the hearth and picked up the cloak hanging over it.

“Put this on. We have to go.”

Arya threw the cloak on the bed and headed for the door, expecting Sansa to follow suit.

Even if she had wanted to, her body would have crumbled to the floor. Her legs and arms were as limp as mud.  “It’s late and it’s freezing,” she said, trying to keep her voice cool and collected. “Whatever it is can wait till morning.” She pulled the furs over her head hoping Arya would simply leave, although she knew full well that wasn’t going to happen. She could hear the footsteps coming closer and the rustle of the covers as Arya grabbed a fistful of the material and she held onto the edges as hard as she could.

“Trust me. It can’t!”

The covers slipped through her fingers, as Arya dragged them off the bed and left her exposed to the cold, driving fresh shivers all along her spine. It was no use. Her sister always got what she wanted. She groaned and dragged herself up.

Arya waited by the door, with her arms folded like the little tyrant she was, while Sansa fiddled with the lacing on her shoes and slowly put her cloak on, with trembling fingers.

 “Seven hells!” Arya said. She grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the room.

The great keep was dark, save for a torch or two placed at the junction between hallways that crisscrossed each other into a labyrinth of narrow walls.   Everyone had retired from the feast, except the posted guards placed at the entrance to the South wing and she could hear their own footsteps echoing down the length of the passageway.

They moved swiftly, making turns several times, avoiding being seen. They were already half way there by the time Sansa’s senses returned enough for her to realize where they were going.

At the juncture between the South and the West wing, they stopped and stepped into the darkened alcove. She looked up at the Bran the builder tapestry hanging unassumingly on the wall. It had always been her favorite. The vivid blues and silvers, with the huge heart tree in the middle separating Winterfell from the Wall where Brandon himself was depicted raising huge blocks of ice high into the air, helped along by giants.

When she was young, she had dreamt of making a tapestry in the same colors depicting Aemon the Dragonknight and his sister Naerys and hanging it in the Great Hall for all to see. That was until her mother made it clear that such a thing was not possible. “No Targaryen will ever set foot in this house again,” she had said.

Arya reached behind the tapestry and pushed at the wall, slowly opening the secret door, trying to make as little noise as possible. Dust flew everywhere as the stone door dragged over the floor and it seemed impossibly loud in the complete silence that surrounded them.

Arya quickly looked around, trying to see if anyone had heard. When no one came running, she pulled Sansa through the door and down the stairs. Her sister’s footsteps grew more urgent forcing Sansa to follow and she almost tripped over her skirts. But Arya pulled her hand and made her quicken her pace just the same.

It was only after they had reached the courtyard and were half way to the godswood that she started talking, words flying out of her mouth in quick succession as they trudged through the thick layers of snow.

“I was watching the East Wing as I told you I would when I saw Jon coming out of the dragon queen’s room. I think they …” She looked at Sansa and the outrage on her face must have been evident because Arya stopped herself. “Anyway, he was going back to his room when Sam showed up. He told him to come with him.”

As they entered the godswood, Sansa could see a torch flickering in the darkness, near the heart tree and Arya speed up her step towards it.

“So I followed them just to make sure no one else would and here Bran was waiting for them.”

Once in the clearing, she was met with Bran sitting next to the heart tree and Sam standing on the opposite side, holding the torch. The sight of Arya made him take a few steps back, until he tripped over one of the weirwood roots. He straightened his posture immediately and tried his best not to look guilty.

“And they started talking and I listened and …”Arya stopped just long enough to look at the two of them, before barking her next words: “Well! Cat’s got your tongue now? Tell her what you told Jon!”

Sam retreated into his cloak as if he had suddenly found himself without a neck and looked down awkwardly, bringing his hands to cover his large belly as if fearing he would be gutted on the spot.

When neither one of them said anything, Sansa rolled her eyes, frustration getting the better of her. “So? What is it?” She rubbed her hands together hard, trying to dull the numbness. Arya had dragged her out of the room before she could even think to put on her dress and gloves and now she was stuck in the woods, freezing to death starring down two men who had lost their power of speech. “Will you tell me or should Arya?”

“The thing is …” Sam started hesitantly, his voice soft and a little sheepish smile tugged on his lips. “He needed to know … sooner, rather than later. So I thought I’d bring him here …But he took it very badly and …”

“He took what very badly?” Sansa interrupted. When Sam wouldn’t answer, she turned her eyes to Bran and did her best to intimidate her unflappable brother. “He took what very badly?”

It took a moment for Bran to answer and when he did, Sansa thought surely she had not heard correctly. “Jon is not father’s son,” he said.

She blinked rapidly, still staring at her little brother trying to match his lack of expression with the gravity of what he was saying. “What are you talking about, Brandon Stark? Have you gone mad?”

“It’s the truth. Father only lied to save him from Robert Baratheon.”

“What would Robert Baratheon want with Jon? Why would he …?”

“He says that Jon is a Targaryen,” Arya said, looking up at her. “The son of Rhaegar and our aunt Lyanna. Sam found the journal entry at the citadel where the maester confessed to marrying them.”

As her eyes darted back and forth between Arya and Sam, her mouth went dry. She tried to wet her lips but found them trembling.

“He was born in Dorne, in the Tower of …”

Bran’s cold voice trailed off, drowned by the drumming in her ears. It couldn’t be! If he was … but that meant …that would make Jon … If this was true, it was terrible! _Oh! Think, Sansa, think. Get a hold of yourself and think!_ Her vision blurred as the sharp pain made her stomach churn. Sorrow, fear and anger burned through her, fighting to come out and she looked at Bran, anger came out the victor. “How could you be so cruel?”

“He needed to know the truth about himself,” Bran said.

“So you decided to tell a man his entire life was a lie, in the middle of the night, in the woods?”

“Never mind that!” Arya said. “I’ll deal with these two idiots. Jon is sitting out there,” she pointed over Sansa’s shoulder towards the darkened edges of the clearing, “his ass getting wet in the snow, starring at nothing. I tried to get him to move. I talked my head off for half an hour but he won’t budge. You need to go talk to him.”

“And tell him what?”

“He asked about you all through supper,” she said, as if she was talking to the mentally challenged.  “I don’t know what the two of you have been up to while I was away but your opinion matters to him. So go and tell him that everything will be all right.”

“How can I say that, Arya? Everything is not all right.”

“He’s still our brother!” Sansa knew the menacing look Arya gave her all too well. It was the same threatening expression she had had when she accused her of betraying him.

But she would not be cowered or shamed. “But he’s not! Don’t you see?” she said, barely able to keep her voice down. “If Jon is a Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, that means …” Her voice grew into a high pitch and the lack of air made the last words die unspoken.

“He’s the heir to the Iron Throne,” Bran said.

“And you think that’s a good thing, do you? Do you know how many people died for that ugly chair? Robert, Joffery, Tommen, Stannis, Renly and countless others … Now Cersei sits in it and whoever wants to take it from her will have to prize it out of her dead hands. Which is what the dragon queen wants to do.”

Sansa covered her face with her hands, as the full realization of what had just occurred hit her. “Daenerys Targaryen believes the Iron Throne is her birthright. What do you think she will do when she finds out that her new ally has a better claim to it than she does?”

She felt dizzy, so many thoughts rambling in her brain and she closed her eyes. She breathed in and out slowly, trying to quiet her rambling mind and as she became more focused, things began to crystalize. _There’s no point in being angry over what happened,_ she thought. _No point in wishing it away. Once the cow’s been milked, there’s no squirting the cream back up her udders._

“Who else knows about this?” she asked, her voice calm and steady now.

“Only Howland Reed, Meera’s father,” Bran said. “He was there the day Jon was born, with father.”

Sansa nodded. “In the morning I will write a letter to Lord Reed. I need it to be received undetected and Howland Reed as far away from the North as possible. Can you do that, Arya?”

“Of course, I can,” she scoffed.

“Good. Sam,” she said, getting closer to him. “The journal … you will give it to Arya when you get back to your rooms. She will know how to hide it better than you can.”

She looked at each of them pointedly, before continuing: “This conversation never took place. I want all three of you to go back to the castle, get into your beds and do your best to pretend you’re asleep.”

“And Jon?” Sam asked, his earnest expression filled with concern.

“I will take care of him.”

***

She made her way through the woods, trying her best not to trip over her own feet while she avoided trunks covered in glittering ice and roots hidden beneath snow. Her hand was numb and she could barely feel it holding on to the torch but she tightened the grip just to make sure it wouldn’t slip through her fingers. She didn’t quite know where she was going but she pressed on as if certain that some invisible thread was slowly dragging her to where she needed to be.

Splotches of pale light from the moon above scattered across the ground and as she pressed deeper she could see him near one of the trees. He was but a shadow in the half light, sitting on the ground, flush against the snow, with his hands on his knees and his head hanged between his shoulders.

Sansa came closer and the sudden flash of light must have startled him because he looked up quickly like a stalked hare that was about to be pounced on. She drew a shaking breath that didn’t quite reach deep enough to matter. He was pale and gaunt, his face expressionless, as if he wasn’t there at all.

She suddenly became painfully aware that she had no idea what to say to him. She had come all this way and now she was unable to open her mouth. _You’re still our brother?_ No. That didn’t sound quite right. _I’m sorry. This is terrible! … Don’t be an idiot, Sansa._

“You should get up from there,” she found herself saying, her lips moving before she realized it. “You’ll catch your death.” _Idiot!_

His body convulsed as he gave out something resembling a laugh. “You think there’s any chance of it?”

It twisted her heart to hear the strangled sound of his voice and the self-loathing that was blistering beneath it. “Not if I can help it!” she said, taking a few large steps so she could stand in front of him.

If she had hoped her words could drag some form of relief from him, she was soon disabused of that notion. His brown eyes, usually kind and warm, were dull and empty and he looked up at her in utter and bitter resignation.

“You must despise me now.”

“Of course not!”

“No? The treacherous Targaryen who wants to take Winterfell from you so he can give it …” he stopped, his face filled with disgust, “… to his aunt?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth! I never said that.” And she had not meant that either but she couldn’t tell him. She remembered how humiliated she had felt when she had to admit how much it would hurt to have the dragon queen take him from her and the petty, selfish part of her was relieved that he hadn’t understood.

“Do you know where I was tonight, before they told me? I was with her. I …”

He couldn’t go on and for that she was grateful. She squeezed her eyes shut to chase away the image of Jon … her Jon kissing that woman … touching her …

“None of this would have happened if he had told me!” he said, staring into the ground. “I asked him who my mother was before I went to the wall but he didn’t say anything! Why didn’t he tell me? He let me believe I had a family, a place in the world …”

“Father loved you, Jon!” she said, taking his hand.

He jumped up at the contact and tried to pull his arm back, retreating from her touch until his back hit the trunk of the tree.

She grabbed onto him tighter, forcing him to stay put, locking her eyes to his. “He was trying to protect you!”

Whatever fight had been left in him, it soon fell away and his whole body relaxed. His chin wobbled, as tears started falling down his cheeks. He suddenly grabbed onto her waist and pulled her to him. He buried his face in between the folds of her cloak, his cheek pressed up against her stomach as his body shook with uncontrolled sobs.

She could feel his thick beard scratching her through the material and the wetness of his tears against the skin and she wrapped her arms around him, dropping the torch on the ground. The sight of him like this frightened her. “Please … Please don’t cry…” _This won’t break him. It can’t! Jon is strong!_

“All my life,” he said, between jagged breaths, “all I’ve wanted was to be a Stark.”

He clung to her like a man holding onto a raft in the storm and even through his sobs, she could hear his thick Northern accent. She had never noticed it before. It seemed to her until then that it was exactly how Jon should sound. Strong and gentle at the same time, the voice of a brave man without pretension or deceit. But she remembered now how mortified she had been every time her father spoke once they were in King’s Landing. His words sounded harsh and rough, uncouth even compared to the elegant Southern speech.

None of her siblings spoke that way. Not even Arya. Septa Mordane would never have allowed it. None of them, except Jon. She could almost see his sullen little face, sitting alone, in a corner somewhere practicing his speech until it matched the father he so wanted to please. _Oh, Jon! Poor Jon!_

She fell on the ground next to him, holding him close. Snow wrapped itself around her calves and thighs but she didn’t notice.  She cupped his face and made him look at her, trying to make sure he knew she was speaking the truth:  “You are a Stark. Just as much as you were before.”

She caressed his face, his cheeks, wiping away the tears from his reddened eyes, smoothing out his mangled hair until he started looking like the Jon she knew. “Just as much as the rest of us. Half is all we get,” she said and she was relieved when it drew out a small smile from him. “You still have a place. Winterfell is your home. And you’ll always have Arya and Bran …” They had always been his closest siblings, she remembered.

 “And you?” he whispered. “Do I still have you?”

She smiled and tried to keep her voice light: “Of course. Even though I’m not your favorite sister.”

She had meant it as a joke, of course, but her mirth soon faded as Jon’s brow arched strangely. He tilted his head and looked at her for a long while, his breathing calmer, his eyes moving again and again over her face, a simmering light gleaming in them, piercing through the darkness. “You’re not my sister,” he said simply and he brought his hand up to her cheek.

She fell wide eyed and still as his feathery touch encircled the edge of her face and he caught a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers barely brushed against the skin of her neck and she didn’t really know why his words or his touch had stirred such a rumble in the pit of her stomach.

She stood up quickly, her cheeks flaming red. The whole right side of her face tingled and she could barely look at him for fear that somehow he would understand what escaped even her own understanding.

“We should go,” she said, running her hands over her cloak to chase away the snow.

***

They walked silently, side by side. Through the snow covered branches, Winterfell loomed large and he could feel his feet dragging, clinging to the ground. He didn’t belong there.

He was a lie. Always had been. He had caused only destruction in his path. So many people dead, his own mother dead, just so he could be born. He had cursed the red witch then and her fire god. Why bring him back to wallow in such filth? He had thought of his uncle Benjen, dead, beyond the Wall. He had given his life saving who he believed to be his brother’s son. And now Benjen was dead and he, a Targaryen, was here in the Stark’s house, in their holly forests, eating their food and strutting around calling himself Warden of the North. What a terrible, terrible lie!

 When his anger had finally cleared and he collapsed against the trunk of that tree, he thought he would never rise again. He had no plans past sitting there until the roots grew over him and dragged him down, swallowing him whole.

Then she had come, bathed in golden light, her hair unbound and her lips and cheeks reddened by the cold. Just like she had at the Wall. And just like then, she had dragged him out of the pits. For her, he could live. For her and Arya and Bran.

And then his treacherous blood betrayed him. When she had fallen against him and held him in her arms, he had lost himself … just for a moment … just long enough to give in. _You are not my sister_.

The words still hung in the air, like a great sword rushing down on him and she kept her distance, her head held high. She must have thought he had spurned her.

_Gods, help me!_

There was a full moon out and, as they came into the court yard, her face seemed as white as snow. The rosy flush on her lips and cheeks had, by now, turned blue and her frosty breath lingered in the air. A maiden of winter, with flakes of ice sprinkled in her fiery hair. Cold, shrieking from his touch but hiding such a light as to chase away any traces of darkness.

A shadow passed above them, blacking the moon, forming winged shadows over her and he looked up. It was the smaller, green dragon flying as silently as Ghost would walk through the woods, his body veering to the left as he plunged down, dancing through the midnight sky. As he passed overhead, Sansa gasped and inched closer to him, bumping into his shoulder. She hid her face in the crook of his neck, her body trembling. His arms wrapped around her tightly. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “He won’t hurt you.”

She looked at him and the light caught the sheen on her lips.  He could barely draw breath. He could feel her on his skin, the back of his palm pressed up against her quivering body. He wanted her so badly, he could almost taste it. _What kind of depraved monster am I?_ Wasn’t it enough that he had bedded his aunt? Did he need to tarnish his own sister with his perverted lust?

 _She’s not my sister,_ the bastard in him whispered.

“That’s the one …,” she said and her voice sounded small and innocent, like the young girl she still was but that she fought so hard to hide.

“Rhaegal,”he finished for her. “She named him after … her brother.”

She nodded slowly and wrapped herself in steel again.

“You can’t tell her, Jon. She mustn’t know.”

Her words hurt him in ways she could never know and he let go of her. She looked just like her mother speaking them, too. The proud Lady Catelyn Stark, the woman he had tried so desperately to prove wrong all his life. He had sworn to take no wife, hold no lands and father no children. He had shackled himself in duty and honor. But she had been right. She could not love him and wouldn’t put her faith in him. And neither could her daughter.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“What?” She looked bewildered, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Go where? This is your home.”

“No, it’s not. It never was,” he said, anger biting into him, making him lose reason. “I was only ever the bastard that you tolerated at your table. Thrown out every time someone who really mattered came calling, like a stray dog …”

“Stop it! You always do this! Take every slight, every rejection and then use them to bludgeon yourself with them. We always cared for you. You know that!”

“Then why do you hide from me?”

 “I’m … I’m not hiding,” she protested, avoiding his gaze.

He sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re not hiding. It’s plain to see you don’t trust me.”

“Trust?” she said. Any lingering innocence had now been replaced by the sharpness of blades. “When you publicly announced you were going to accept the dragon queen’s invitation, as if I was nothing more than a dimwitted vassal, was that trust? When you bent the knee without ever asking me, did you trust me?”

“Aye … About as much as you trusted me when you brought Baelish and the Knights of the Vale without telling me.”

She looked horrified and he knew that soon enough he would feel guilty for it. But not yet. Not as the bile rose in his throat and he thought of that lecherous snake confessing his love for her in the crypts. He had promised to protect her, gone to war for her. When he had thought the battle was lost, he almost gave up and let himself get trampled to death for fear of having to live without her. But when it mattered most, she put her trust in the man that sold her to Ramsay Bolton, not in him.

He turned to walk away, intent on putting as much distance between them as possible but then her voice stopped him.

“Littlefinger is dead.”

Her damn voice always did. She would only ever have to pull at those chains a little and he would come running back like the fool he was.

“He was a crutch,” she said, her eyes pleading with him even when her words would not. “I should have done it before but I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to do … That I wouldn’t be ready for what was to come. It took Arya to make me understand that he was a thread that had to be severed.”

She kept her hands tightly crossed in front of her, her chin high in the air and in the pale light she looked almost like a statute, with skin made of ivory. But she couldn’t keep her lips from trembling and then bite them quickly as she waited for him to speak.

“What did Arya do?” he asked, wanting to see how far her honesty would go.

“We held a trial for him. I passed the sentence. She swung the sword.”

He closed his eyes, reeling from the image. But he had known, didn’t he? Had seen the shadow lurking beneath the youthful smile. “She wasn’t with the silent sisters, was she?”

“No. She was in Braavos, training to be a Faceless Man.”

“A Faceless Man? But they wear their victim’s faces …” His eyes widened. “That rumor that went around Winterfell about Walder Frey and his men …”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. He saw the same horror that had grasped his chest reflected in her face. Little sister … a killer. “But she’s a child,” he said, his voice strangled.

She must have thought he would fall onto the ground again because she moved closer to him, until he almost had to raise his head to look at her. “None of us are children anymore, Jon.”

 “Why the pretense, then?”

“Soon enough, this place will be crawling with Lord Vary’s little birds. He had hundreds of them in the Red Keep alone. In time, he’ll find out about Littlefinger, and Bran, perhaps even about Arya herself … But by then she’ll know who his spies are, what him and his queen are planning, what they talk about when they think no one is listening. The pretense buys us time.”

He couldn’t help a small smile from creeping in at the corner of his mouth. She had been foolish to think she needed Littlefinger.

“We are all twisted and broken, Jon. We’ve had to harden ourselves. We’ve lied, betrayed, killed. But we are a family,” she said, her fingers wrapping themselves around his palm. “No matter what anyone else calls us, we’re a family.”

He starred at their interlocking hands and held on tighter, the feel of her skin against his own nailing him to the ground more steadfast than the roots that were spreading beneath their feet.

He wondered if she knew the power her touch had over him. He had done it himself, with Daenerys. He’d seen the longing etched in her face, the soft glow of her smile when he pulled her hand to him. He realized now that he had learned that from Sansa. She always kept him enthralled with the smallest of gestures.

“We are in the eye of a great storm now,” she said. “We must swim or we will die.”

He nodded. Winterfell might not be his home but it was hers and he would give his last drop of blood to protect them both.

***

The long tables had been brought into the Great Hall in the early hours. The largest ones had been placed along the walls and lined with benches that were being filled by every lord in the North and their vassals even as she watched, hidden in the darkness of the passageway.

The Lord’s table was placed in front of the great stone hearth as it was the natural focal point in the room and the first thing you would notice upon entering. Unlike the other tables, it was decorated in simple carvings. Modest by Southern Westerosi standards, the legs were covered in weirwood branches while the frame that went all around its length had motifs of five-pointed leaves. The chairs that were usually occupied by the Lord and Lady of Winterfell carried the same leaves sprinkled with small woodland creatures and a large direwolf carved on their backrest. They had been in the family for generations.

It was still early in the day but large candle holders had been placed in the four corners of the room to supplement the big wooden chandelier. Stewards and maids rushed across the room to light all the candles in order to bring light into an ever increasingly dark space.

The days were getting shorter and shorter and it unsettled her. The Long Night was coming and all manner of monsters would be creeping out with it, lurking in the shadows, preparing to attack.

“Made it out of your cage, I see.”

The hard, brutish sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine and for a moment she found herself back in King’s Landing. He had come at her the last time she had seen him, his breath smelling of sour wine and his large hands pressing into her flesh, bruising the skin through the flimsy silk the queen had made her wear.

She ran her hands over the coarse woolen material of her dress, feeling the thickness of the fur she had sown into it at every seam and finally wrapped her arm around the girdle that she had secured tightly around her waist. If he touched her now, she wouldn’t feel anything through the leather and it made her feel safe even as she turned to see him standing but a few feet away from her.

“My Lord Clegane. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“A pleasure,” he scoffed, barring his teeth. “I doubt it.”

She looked at his face, taking in every feature, focusing on his right side, the one he tried so hard to cover with his hair. She remembered how uncomfortable it made him when people pointed to the reddish, bubbling skin of his burn wound.

 _It’s himself he hates the most_ , she thought. “I heard of the service you gave my sister, Arya. As well as how bravely you fought with Jon beyond the wall. I am most grateful.”

 “Always so polite, aren’t you?” he said, mockingly. But behind the derision, she saw the want, the violent need that had made him seek her out only to lash at her. He took a step towards her and she stood her ground, even if every instinct in her body told her to flee.

“Clegane!”

The sound of Jon’s voice made her exhale in relief. He came from behind her, no doubt walking in from the kitchens and put himself between her and The Hound and the arm around her girdle relaxed and fell to her side.

“I see you’ve met my sister,” Jon said.

The Hound shook his head and stepped back, as Jon starred him down. She didn’t quite know how he managed that when the man towered over him but even with his small stature, Jon had learnt how to intimidate if he wanted to.

“It’s all right, Jon,” she said, feeling braver now and she placed her hand over his arm. “Lord Clegane and I are old friends. Are we not?”

“You know better than that, little bird,” he jeered. “I’m no lord. I’m a dog.”

She smiled as kindly as she could. “It’s a good thing that you are here then. We are very fond of dogs in the North.”

He opened his mouth to speak again but then he looked at the two of them, his eyes traveling from one to the other, filled with disapproval or respect, she couldn’t quite tell but he finally turned around and left.

“You knew him in King’s Landing?” Jon asked.

She could tell that he was angry and concerned, as he searched her face for signs of distress. “Yes,” she said coolly, her tone dismissive. 

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He watched. Just like everyone else.”

The muscles of his face tightened and a dark fury overtook his usually gentle features. _Idiot! Why did you have to say that?_ “You’ll need his sword,” she said, trying to repair the damage. “I saw him fighting the Mountain once. He’s the only man that could probably beat him. He’s a skilled killer.”

“Aye,” he said. “We need all the killers we can get.”

Exhaustion had settled in every line on his face and the dark circles he had arrived with had gone almost purple now making his whole skin sallow and almost sickly. As he surveyed the room wirily, she wondered how many nights must have passed since he had slept more than a few hours. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like I’ve just been stepped on by a giant.” He smiled at her faintly and then turned his attention back to the people in the Great Hall. “I see the Knights of the Vale are still here but where is Bronze Yohn?”

“Sweet Robin is now Lord of the Vale. Ser Yohn has been appointed Guardian until he comes of age.”

“Probably for the best. He never liked me much.”

“You don’t have to worry about him or the Knights of the Vale,” she reassured him. “I’ve been in correspondence with  Sweet Robin ever since we took back Winterfell. He’s been persuaded that leaving his knights here to protect his cousin is the gallant thing to do.”

She took a moment to bask in his surprised and appreciative expression. She had been quite proud of herself for managing to win Robin back after hitting him in the gardens. He was a strange child, to be sure, but not an evil one.

“It’s Lord Glover you have to worry about. As always …” she said, turning her attention back to the room. They both watched the old white bearded man standing to the side talking to one of his vassals. He struck quite the figure. He was tall, towering almost everyone else in the room and his temper was the stuff of legends.

“Perhaps I should let you do all the talking,” he said and she could tell he was only half joking. “You’re better at it than I am.”

“That’s not true.” He looked at her completely unconvinced, as he always did when he was being paid a compliment. “It’s not! I learned a great deal from you, actually.”

He laughed bitterly at that. “No, you didn’t.”

She sighed wondering how a man that had achieved so much in his life could be that unsure of himself.

“When you pardoned Ned Umber and Alice Karstark,” she said, the words coming out hesitantly, “I argued against it. You thought I was trying to undermine you but I wasn’t. I thought that when you are betrayed, you have to set an example to everyone else so it doesn’t happen again. That’s what being around Cersei and Littlefinger taught me.”

She looked down, shame stinging at her. “But you taught me that being strong wasn’t enough. Sometimes you must also be kind. Perhaps taking castles from two innocent children might feel satisfying in the moment but it’s not how you get people to work together. And you’re very good at that,” she continued and when she looked up at him, his expression had softened. “You talk to people, not as their king or their lord, but as their equal and they listen to you, not because they’re afraid but because they respect you.”

He still hesitated for a moment, as if doubting whether he should believe her but then he took a deep breath and reached for her hand, a small smile blooming at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, Sansa.”

It was only a hand hold. They had done it in the past. There was no reason for worry or for noticing just how the warmth of his skin seemed to spread throughout her body, but as they saw Ser Jorah Mormont approaching, Jon let go of her hand quickly and all of a sudden she felt very cold.

The queen’s sworn sword eyed them curiously, before speaking. “The queen requests your presence, my lord.”

Jon nodded and left without a word, followed by Ser Jorah. Watching him leave, Sansa could feel the anger building itself up inside her again. She had almost forgotten about it, buried under the weight of the revelations of last night, the confessions and hand holdings in the woods. The argument that had left her crying herself to sleep only hours before had seemed meaningless and yet now it was rearing its ugly head again.

She tried to shake it off and willed herself out of the passageway, entering the Great Hall. There was no time for skulking or feeling sorry for herself. She made her way slowly through the great room and as she passed by every man and woman stood up and bowed. She smiled politely, turning her head right to left and back again but kept on walking.

She finally stopped in front of Lord Glover, who immediately turned around and bowed his head.

 “Ser Robett,” she said, smiling courteously. “How is your granddaughter, Erena? I heard she was taken down with a terrible chill. I trust she’s feeling better.”

“Aye, my lady. She is,” the gruff northerner said but she could sense the small hint of warmth coming through. “We have no healer of our own and now that winter is here, the Citadel is not likely to send us one for some time. But your Maester Wolkan has been a great help. Thank you for sending him.”

“No thanks needed, my lord. I’m glad he was able to help. He will remain until Lady Erena is fully recovered.”

Lord Glover had always been a harsh man and one who was known to have treated his own children not too kindly. His granddaughter, on the other hand, she was a different matter. There was nothing the old man wouldn’t do for her. Sansa was honestly glad the little girl was feeling better but the part of her that had been forged in King’s Landing also hoped that her kindness would perhaps stave off Lord Glover’s ire at his king having bent the knee.

To the great confusion of all, she sat herself in between Lord Glover and Samwell Tarly. Jon’s friend smiled shyly at her and tried to squeeze his considerable girth to make room for her. She wondered how he had survived on the wall since he didn’t look like he would be much of a runner, let alone a fighter. But he was clever, she knew that, barring last night’s unwise incident, and perhaps sometimes that was more important than wielding a sword.

As the queen’s retinue began assembling around the Lord’s Table, the noise in the room slowly died down. She could feel people watching her, some confused, some enraged. So focused they were that they almost didn’t notice the dragon queen walking into the room.

Sansa stood up immediately and in due course people followed her lead. She steeled herself from the sight of the mad king’s daughter sitting herself on the chair in the center or at what a fine figure she and Jon made, as he stood at her side, dressed in the cloak she had made for him. It was bitter medicine to swallow. But she had had no choice.

The moment Daenerys Targaryen had set foot in the Great Hall the night before she had asked where the throne was. When Sansa had been confused, she went on to clarify: “Jon Snow was King in the North until he became my Warden.”

She had needed to explain that the King in the North didn’t have a throne, he only had a chair and before she knew it, the queen had laid claim to it. And now she sat herself in it as if it belonged to her, while one member of House Stark remained standing, at her side and the other was relegated to the lower tables, together with the rest of the vassals.

 _It’s only a chair_ , she thought trying to calm herself. _It does not matter_. But the room seemed infested all of a sudden as Tyrion and Varys came next to her, while the rest of the retinue spread behind them. There were two chairs remaining but none of them took notice, as if the thought of sitting next to the queen had never even entered their minds.

Even Ser Davos was forced to stand behind Jon. He was no longer Hand of the King because there was no King. The queen had made sure everyone knew that.

She looked at all the faces that surrounded their new ruler and her blood ran cold as she saw the Dothraki guard who had positioned himself just at the side, his hand on his curled sword as if ready to cut down anyone who approached.

The night before, he had grabbed her in the darkness of the hallways but she recognized the cold blue ice of his eyes cutting through her even now and the strange, black paint he used to mark his upper and lower lids. He smiled wickedly from beneath his thick beard but she held her chin high, even as her arm wrapped around her waist. _I am the Lady of Winterfell. You can’t frighten me._

The room was still silent as the queen’s handmaiden, Missandei, began speaking: “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of house Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful queen of the Andals and The First Men, protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains.”

Sansa’s heart sunk in her chest. _She knows nothing of the North_ , she thought and, as she looked at Jon, she could see the strain of annoyance pulling at him.

She wondered if the queen had expected some kind of response as she gazed serenely around the room but when none was forthcoming, she spoke: “My lords and ladies, thank you all for coming. Three hundred years ago, Torrhen Stark and my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, stood in this very room. Together they ushered in three centuries of stability and prosperity for the Seven Kingdoms. Now, as the North is faced with its greatest threat, I, Daenerys Stormborn, the last Targaryen, promise you that I will do everything in my power to protect what they built.”

There were more than 100 people in the room and yet you could hear a pin drop. People gazed at each other, looked to the ground or simply starred at the strange, silver haired woman sitting in front of them. But no one spoke.

Sansa wondered if the queen realized she had not given them permission to sit. Perhaps she preferred her subjects standing for uncomfortably long periods of time.

It was Tyrion who spoke next, perhaps emboldened by his belief in his legendary rhetorics. “We are here to help, my lords. An army of a hundred thousand strong and two dragons have come here to fight …”

“Aye,” Lord Manderly spoke. “We’ve seen ‘em. Her Grace’s black dragon paid one of my vassals a visit only last night.”

“Well, that’s fascinating.” The dwarf was obviously annoyed at the interruption as well as the implications of what Ser Wymar had just said. “And we can discuss it more at length …”

“He ate 3 sheep and burnt the rest of the herd, together with the pen they were in.”

“That is unfortunate,” he continued, as the queen and her handmaiden exchanged glances and smiled. “I’m sure restitutions can be made …”

“Gold?” Lord Glover scoffed. “You Lannisters think everything can be bought with gold.”

“That is enough!” the queen intervened. “What is your name?”

The man straightened his back and spoke through gritted teeth: “Lord Robett Glover.”

“Lord Glover, I am very sorry for the loss of the sheep,” she said, unable to suppress a smile.

“You think that’s funny, do you? Of course you do. You’ve never seen winter. Nor have any of the hundred thousand foreigners you brought here. Winters are long and harsh, nothing grows and there’s no food for miles. Those sheep meant 100 mouths could be fed for 3 months at least, if not more.”

The queen clenched her jaw as people in the room agreed with Ser Robett and she drew a sharp breath. “You misunderstand me …”

“I think I understand you just fine, Your Grace,” his tone was sharp and his voice bellowed through at the Great Hall. “Just as well as I understood your father.”

The queen’s eyes blazed with fury at the accusation. “I am not my father!”

“No? Twenty five years ago Lord Rickard Stark rode to King’s Landing to free his son and heir. The boy was prisoner because he demanded justice for his sister. She had been abducted and raped by your brother.”

Jon flinched as Lord Glover spoke and Sansa had to dig the nails into the back of her palm to stop herself from putting an end to it. But how could she do that now? The storm had been unleashed. All she could do was swim.

“As payment for Lord Stark’s trust, the mad king burned him alive. And while the father burned, he put a sword on the floor and watched the son strangle himself trying to reach it.”

“I know what my father has done. I have already extended my apologies to Jon Snow for those crimes.”

“I wonder … did you also extend your apologize to the Tarlys, Your Grace?”

Everyone in the room turned to look at Lord Glover then, not least of all Sam. Surely he didn’t mean …

“Did you apologize to the wife for burning her husband and lord of her keep? To the mother and sister for ending the life of their son and brother? Did Dickon Tarly receive the same choice that your father gave Brandon Stark?”

Sansa looked at Sam. His usually good-natured disposition had been replaced by a rage so black it almost frightened her. He tightened his hands into fists and his eyes shoot up violently the moment she touched him. _I’m sorry_ , she tried to say. _I am so sorry! Please don’t do anything!_

His mind seemed beyond reason and he pulled his hand out of her grip. He turned to look at Jon and whatever was exchanged between the two of them made Sam soon flee the room.

Sansa was relieved that no one had taken notice. By then the whole room was in disarray, people talking over themselves, accusations flinging at the queen who found herself lost in all the noise. “I gave them a choice,” was all she could say to defend herself.

It was not good enough for the people of the North. They had lived through her father’s time, bled in the war that he had started. The North remembered. “Are we to burn as well?” they shouted. “Are our children to be food for your dragons?”

Finally, Lyanna Mormont, the little Bear, spoke out. “Is this true, my lord?” she asked, directing her question at Jon.

His face had turned to ash, his mouth a thin, unmoving line. He looked down at his queen but she refused to meet his eyes.

“Aye. It’s true,” he finally said and was met with gasps from across the room. “The Tarlys raised their banners against Queen Daenerys and they were killed by dragon fire.”

He waited until the shock waned a little before walking from behind the table and coming to the center of the room, facing Lord Glover directly. “Six moons ago, I left here promising you I would never stop fighting for the North. And I haven’t. The queen has brought all her forces here to fight with us against our common enemy. Our numbers have now grown, our blacksmiths are forging dragonglass into weapons as we speak and we have enough fire to push the Night King back into the seven hells where he belongs.”

As he spoke, he turned towards the queen: “I wish I could have done more but nothing in life has any business being perfect.”

He looked at the people that surrounded him with the same honesty that they had come to expect from him and said: “I know what your dreams for the North were. I know them because I dreamt them myself.” He shook his head sadly. “Two moons back, I went beyond the Wall. I saw the army of the dead grow large and fat on the bodies of people I had met, broke fast with, lived with. I would have been among them if it weren’t for Benjen Stark.”

He looked at her for just a moment and Sansa had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the tremors that were threatening to overtake her face. He had said nothing of uncle Benjen. “The last I saw of my uncle was him wielding two giant fire maces, cutting down wight after wight as five hundred dead encircled him. He died fighting! As any Northerner would.”

Sansa  looked around the room and she could feel the tide turning as assuredly as she could feel anything. The mention of Benjen Stark had gotten people’s attention. The impassioned retelling of his valiant last stand had ignited admiration. Benjen had been the true last son of Rickard Stark, the man many of them had served and loved. The hardened Northern faces began to change. Anger and repulsion were soon overcome by admiration and determination.

“Keep your dreams for spring, my lords. Winter is here,” he said. “And in winter we need to fight!”

Jon’s voice had grown stronger and it echoed through the Great Hall, reaching even the hardest of hearts, as men began to nod and clink their swords in approval.

“I’m fighting for Benjen Stark! The man who gave his life for mine. The blood of Winterfell! You need to fight for yourselves! For your children! For the North! Fight because if you don’t, there will be nothing left to dream of!”

Ser Robett was the last one to hold out, his face still unyielding. Jon looked him in the eye and said: “There’s only one war that matters. And it is here.”

He lingered a moment longer, taking another glance at the queen forgotten in her chair but, at last, he turned his attention to the man in front of him and extended his arm. “I will fight that war with you,” Glover said.

Jon took his arm and all at once, around the room, the clinking of swords and ale mugs against the wooden tables grew stronger and stronger until it seemed even the walls voiced their approval. The forgotten foreigners, sitting at the Lord ’s Table, looked on in confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! And thank you so much for your amazing feed-back this far! I really appreciate it!
> 
> A few clarifications: 
> 
> 1\. I looked up Robett Glover on the ASOIAF wiki and there he's shown to have a son and daughter. I haven't read the books (I know ... terrible! I'm getting to it) but I'm assuming he's younger than the actor they cast in the show. Also in one of his scenes, he mentioned having a granddaughter so I decided to use the name of his daughter for his granddaughter  
> 2\. I don't think there are any decorations on the Lord's table in the show but I wanted to add them to give a bit more color and backstory  
> 3\. I know we're already almost 40 pages into this thing and only 2 days have past. The pacing will pick up in later chapters but for now there was a lot to unravel and dissect.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... I had to repost this as I didn't see it show up in the GOT section at all. Strange! 
> 
> I any case, sorry for the long wait. This was hard to write and there were a lot of things I needed to sort out before finishing it. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Warning: there are graphic depictions of violence in this scene and also a major character death (I don't know if you'd define this character as major necessarily but they are a part of the regular cast so there you go ....)

**Chapter 3**

 

The fog had risen from the sea high and thick, covering the small vessel. The water lapped against its wooden belly rocking it slowly and he looked up to the night sky … dark. _No stars in sight_ , he thought, inhaling deeply. The salty air was filled with the putrid smell of seaweed and blood. There was always blood in his nostrils. The red stench mixed with lavender oils never left him and he forced himself to draw breath again. There would be more blood to come soon enough.

The silence seemed almost deafening, punctuated by the clanking of steel as the light in the distance bopped … up and down … up and down. It seemed to draw nearer and it made him smile. It still rested uncomfortably on his lips, as if he had forgotten how to do it but he tried his hand at it again, the edges of his mouth quivering slightly, as the frigid wind blew through his hair. His Ironborn body told him it was the upwind they needed, the gauge as the men on the vessel called it.

The fifty men at his back stood silently, darkness surrounding them. The air was thick with the clenching of muscles and the gripping of swords, but no one spoke or moved. They lay in wait.

Waiting was something Theon knew well. Reek had taught him that. The wait that had tormented him in the beginning had become sweet at the end. The wait and the darkness, they were havens. It was when the light approached that fear gripped him. After it pain or reward would always follow. _Which will it be this time?_

His wait on Dragonstone had ended in reward … to some extent. He had been forced to linger for days on the island after the queen’s departure, gathering what little supplies he could and then the winds had turned, pushing their ships back to the shoreline. He had been anxious then, fearing that the longer his ships weren’t given to the water the further away from his aid Yara would get.

Then, on their last day, one of the scouts spotted the silver kraken, his third red eye gleaming in the distance. His uncle’s two hundred ships were one day away from the island.

As the men started running in a frenzy to gather their weapons and prepare for a siege, Theon waited. He knew Euron was not heading for him. He cared nothing for a rocky island or the cock-less nephew on it. Not when he was heading back to King’s Landing.

When night fell, he raised his sails and headed out to sea to greet him. Yara had brought sixty ships with her to Meereen when she had forged her alliance with the dragon queen.  Daenerys Targaryen had given him a poultry five, with only one war galley and barely enough men to steer them. That’s what his sister’s life was worth to her.

What could he do with five ships? Four of the Targaryen ships, with their Three Headed Dragon, he filled with the men that the queen had given him. They were not Ironborn. They could go in the front. The Unsullied, as they were called, were not seamen. Most of them had never seen a ship battle in their lives. But they were obedient. Their queen had told them to listen to him and listen they did, without a thought to danger or the sheer lunacy of his plan. He told them to attack from the front, while he would come up from the rear, with his Sea Bitch and the war galley.

Instead he waited. As they came upon the fleet, just off the shores of Dragonstone, Euron unleashed his fireballs on the four dragon ships. Theon kept out of the line of fire and watched. He watched the ships trying to fire back and failing, he watched as men screamed and threw themselves overboard. Finally, he watched as the fire slowly consumed the dragon.

And then as Silence, his uncle’s longship, came into view, he dropped the Targaryen sigil from his sails and raised the banner of the true queen of the Iron Islands, Yara Greyjoy: the golden kraken.

It shouldn’t have mattered. His ship was but a fly on Euron’s two hundred strong back. He should have turned around and continued on to King’s Landing. But that was not the Ironborn way. The men of Pyke didn’t ignore flies; they crashed up against them like waves against rock.

So Silence pursued. And Theon did what he did best … Just as he had done off the shores of King’s Landing, he ran. But this time Euron didn’t let him get away. He tracked him like any good hunter would, his sea hound ever at his back, foam forming at its mouth, hungry for its prey, leaving the other dogs trailing behind her.

His Sea Bitch and War Maiden soon grew tired and as Euron drew closer, he instructed his men to throw their cargo overboard. When they refused, he cracked some skulls. _Eat or be eaten_. Reek had taught him that too. Barrels of wine, crates of food littered the sea behind them and they were left with barely enough to survive. Days stretched into weeks until finally they reached The Bite.

And then, just as everyone was beginning to titter on the edge,  the fog came flush from the sea, engulfing him in the darkness that he craved.

He had been waiting for hours but, at long last, in the distance, he heard the cracking of the wood as Silence approached. The hound with its long side and its skull-and-bones back passed what felt like inches away from his ship and he held his breath, waiting to see if it had worked.  

Through the mist, the fire balls rose from its mouth once more. They erupted in the air and whooshed at great speed towards the bopping lantern he had placed atop a pike. One after the other, the hound’s teeth hit the water with a thud and their flame was soon extinguished. 

His breath hitched in his throat as the darkness surrounded them once more. Mere moments seemed to stretch into eternity as he waited. Then, at long last, War Maiden pierced through the fog, ablaze from bow to stern. It grew larger and larger as it quickly came upon Silence hitting it on the side. The fire spread and he heard screams and grunts as his men jumped from the flaming inferno down onto the longship.

When Sea Bitch turned, he lost his footing and almost fell over. He clung to the railing, as the ship maneuvered with ease in the gauge and gathered speed. As the fiery battle neared, his men could no longer be silent. They cried out in hard, horse voices, railing themselves up.

When they made contact with the other ship, a terrible tremor reverberated through the entire deck.  In a daze, he saw the men beginning to board, jumping in amidst fire and the clinking of steel, and he followed them, wobbling slightly as he drew his sword.

The hot fiery air blazed at his skin as he jumped, and he brought his hand up to protect himself from the light. From the red and smoke blackened flames a man emerged, flapping his arms, his mouth agape in a scream that wouldn’t come out. As he came closer he could see the golden metal of his armor fusing to his skin, bubbling at the edges. He carried a solid yellow banner in his hand, half aflame, dangling in the air. Theon turned around, getting out of the way as the man stumbled away from him.

The fire was growing quickly and spreading towards the hull and he ran frantically. He needed to reach her before the flames. He bumped into men’s backs as steel hit flesh all around him. As he got to the staircase, one of Euron’s men came charging at him, holding a battle axe above his head. His eyes were crazed and his beard and eyebrows were grey with ash. He brought the axe down and Theon lost his footing, falling on the ground. He raised his sword clumsily more out of reflex than strategy and managed to bar the hit. He shoved the man hard with his leg and hit him in the belly.

As he reeled back, Theon charged, blurry eyed, and drove the blade through his throat. The man fell on his knees, blood gurgling out of his neck and mouth and Theon could taste the iron on his tongue, inhale its metal, mixed in with lavender. He felt his stomach twist as he struggled to keep down whatever little food there was in his belly, and he stumbled down the stairs.

“Yara!” he screamed, coughing as the heavy smoke scratched at his lungs. His eyes started to water and he brought his hand to his mouth, as he delved deeper into Silence’s belly. From behind him, he heard footsteps rushing towards him and he turned around, flailing his sword in the dark. One torch and then another came at him.

“It’s us, my prince,” Ralf said, coming closer to him together with one of his brothers. He was a youth, barely past childhood. Still young enough to think Theon Greyjoy was someone he could look up to.

“I’m not your prince,” he muttered and roughly pulled the torch from his hand. “Yara!” he screamed again.

As the smoke cleared a little, he could see chains attached to a pole at the far side of the hull and he started running. The smell of blood invaded him again as he saw red pools seeping out of a wound. A long, deep wound on the inside of a wrist.

He tripped over his feet as he fell next to his sister. Her eyes were wide open and black as night, boring into him. Her skin was as white as snow, no expression lining her features. “Yara, I’m here! I’ve come!”

Water mixed with the soot on his face and he cried black tears. “We have to go now,” he said, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “I’m sorry I ran but I’m here now!”

But she did not move, a knife still in her right hand, gripped tightly. Next to her, another body laid motionless and Ralf kicked and pushed at it with his foot until it turned.

The wound on his neck still leaked and as Theon looked down, he could see the lacing was undone, his cock peering through the gape.

He thought he heard himself scream but he couldn’t be sure. He could feel the metal in his hand and the way it pushed down into flesh like it was butter, over and over again. His hand came up and down, up and down stabbing at belly and groin.

“We have to go!” Ralf and his brother grabbed onto his arms and pulled him back. “The ship is sinking.”

“No! Not without Yara!” he said, struggling against their grip as they dragged him towards the staircase

“She’s gone, my prince.”

 _I’m not your prince,_ he wanted to say but his breath grew heavier, as he inhaled more and more smoke. Everything around him spun out of control, fire and blood mixing in a twisted dance upon the wooden floor of a ship followed by the relief of darkness.

 

By the time he came to, he was on Sea Bitch again, drifting out to sea. His safe darkness had been replaced by the light of day, dim as it was and his wait had come to an end. It would be pain, after all. His sister was gone. He had betrayed her again and there would be no chance at making amends this time.

“What do you want to do ‘bout the prisoners?” the first mate asked.

He looked up. The man with his sunken cheeks and weathered, ghostly skin watched him carefully, his long hair hanging limply and dripping with water at the tips. For a moment he was reminded of Balon Greyjoy but for some reason that image no longer filled him with dread. They were gone now. All of them, except one. “Where is my uncle?”

“He jumped ship,” the first mate said. “We lost him in the fog.”

He would find him again. He knew that much and then the Greyjoys would be no longer. 

“What do we do ‘bout the prisoners, then?”

 _I don’t care_ , he wanted to say. _Drown them, carve them up in little pieces, break their bones! I don’t care!_ But he didn’t. Wearily, he dragged himself off the floor and stood up.

A throbbing pain spread across the back of his skull and it made it hard to keep his eyes open. He moved slowly towards the middle of the ship where twenty men huddled together, on the ground.

“The men say we should put blunt swords in their hands and watch them hack at each other,” the first mate suggested.

Theon looked at the ash blackened faces and wondered how many of them had gone down in the hull. How many of them did it take before Yara finally gave up? Their empty eyes didn’t have the answers. Most of them couldn’t even look at him. Some rocked themselves back and forth, others bended their backs until their heads were between their legs and covered their faces with their hands. Fingers were missing on some of them, two had had their noses chopped off. Yet none of them made a sound. Only one looked at him, his blue eyes terrified, begging as he moved his mouth in a parody of speech until some form of mumbled, weak sound came out.

His uncle’s silent crewmen. He wondered what would happen if he shoved a torch at them. Would they cower away, pleading to be left alone? _They’re all Reeks._  

“No one touches them,” he said.

“We weren’ thinking of touching them. Bu’ some boots to the back of their skulls wouldn’ hurt,” the first mate said, laughing.

Some of the other men joined in and as their laughter grew Theon met those lifeless, begging eyes again.

“I don’t want them harmed. No one touches them,” he said again.

The laughter stopped and the Ironborn looked at him, as if he had lost his mind. Little did they know that his mind hadn’t been his own in a very long time. It was still laying somewhere, in the depths of the Dreadfort.

 “They raped your sister!” the first mate shouted, disgust brimming from every word. “What sorry excuse of a cock-less reaver are you?”

Theon clenched his jaw and drew his sword. He turned and pushed the man on the ground, shoving him down with his knee. He stood above him, his sword aimed at his neck. “I am not a reaver! And they nest time you talk to me that way, you die!”

He shoved at the man’s body and stood up. “Anyone want to challenge me,” he said, for all his crewmen to hear, “I’ll be down below,” before turning around to leave.

 “Where are we going, my prince?”  he heard Ralf say.

He paused for a moment. “White Harbor.”

***

_Preparations for the Great War are at hand. The Crown will send its troops as soon as they are assembled. Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms._

“Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms!” Daenerys spat out. She speed up her steps through the narrow balcony, forcing Tyrion to stumble over his feet awkwardly as he trailed behind her, scroll in hand.

“You must allow her the pomp and circumstance for now,” Tyrion said, trying to keep his voice low.

Whether it was anger or the cold that made her move so fast, she didn’t quite know. The more time she spent at Winterfell, the more she had to contend with both. Her ears were red and stiff and she had to constantly move her finger inside the gloves to keep them from going numb.

She didn’t understand how anyone could live in such an inhospitable place, the snow and the wind lashing at you relentlessly, dulling your senses. She longed for the warm climates of Meereen, feeling the soft breeze of the summer seas and looking down on the peaceful word beneath from the pyramid’s highest terrace. _No! Those days are gone,_ she kept repeating to herself. _I belong here._

“Allow her?” she said, loudly. “She’s using my titles and throwing them in my face.”

“She’s trying to bait you! Don’t let her.”

Daenerys closed her eyes for a moment, trying to extinguish the fire that was threatening to overcome her. “We’ve been here for a month! And yet her troops haven’t arrived.”

“Things work differently in King’s Landing. The Lannister army consists of bannermen, all of them with their own soldiers. It takes time for them to agree on a common strategy, means of travel …”

“Or perhaps they’re not agreeing on anything,” she said, stopping and looking down at him. “Perhaps they’re not coming to the North at all and are instead moving in to retake what is mine.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed as he frowned at the accusation and she stared him down, allowing for her words to sink in. _Three treasons shall you know_ … The words rattled in her brain.

“Cersei has agreed to the truce,” he said. “There’s no reason …”

“A truce you discussed with her in private.”

She had not thought about the prophecy in a long time but ever since arriving at Dragonstone, it had begun to haunt her again.  Perhaps the third of the treasons was approaching and she could somehow sense it. Despite his protestations, she knew well that Tyrion had not completely abandoned his attachment to his family. Blood and Gold she had suffered already. Would Love be next?

“A truce you needed in order to safely march North.” He lowered his voice and sweetened his words into something he expected she would like, “Your Grace, we cannot have conflict in our midst. We are in a tenuous position here, as it is.”

Her Hand was a clever man, she knew well. His words were honeyed and silvered with meaning when he cared to make them so. She had liked that in the beginning when he had come to her in Meereen with his schemes and plans. He had seemed so sure of himself then and of her. But now she found herself growing weary of his counsel. She could never truly tell whose side he was on and it gnawed at her, lacing all their interactions with suspicion and bitterness. She looked at his face, trying to decipher it once and for all. His brown hair and beard had grown long and unkempt and his lips were stained with the Dornish Red he enjoyed so much. But his sharp, blue eyes seemed to hold the look of truth in them.    

She turned and began walking again, keeping a steady pace and allowing him to walk at her side.

“Speaking of which, we must discuss our approach to the Northern Lords. Have you spoken to Jon Snow?” he asked, sizing his moment.

The mention of the name sent a sharp jolt through her. “I have not,” she said.

She could hear the whispers all around her. From Tyrion and Varys. Even Missandei and Grey Worm spoke of it in hushed tones, their voices laced with sympathy. Her Warden had not attended any of the meetings she had held in her rooms. He had exchanged only pleasantries on the rare occasions they found themselves next to each other at dinner. But mostly he had taken to eating his food with common soldiers or disappearing from the great hall anytime she came into the room.

Only Ser Jorah, her old loyal bear, dared mention it. “He should be here, by your side, Khaleesi,” he had said. “Northerners will see his absence as a rebuke.” His words had warmed her heart then, for she had been so angry with Jon Snow. She had resolved on showing her displeasure the moment he sought her out after the disastrous Northern Council, where he did nothing to defend her against the unfair attacks of his lords. She allowed herself to imagine his repentance and fervent apologies and how she would only give in once she was satisfied that he had suffered her indifference for long enough.

But he had not come to her. One month later and he had still not come. The more he delayed, the less resolute she felt. And at night … his absence from her bed left her wide awake and trembling, unable to find rest.

Ser Jorah’s words did not bring her solace anymore. They sounded empty now, the certain result of bitter jealousy, not concern. She understood Jon better than any of them did for she knew him in ways that they could not. She had seen his awkwardness at being in his own home, saw the way people looked down on him. He had been discounted and underestimated all his life, just as she had been. And now, when faced with a conflict between where his heart truly lie and where he thought his duty did, he did not know how to act.

She smiled as she remembered his long, solemn face as he looked at her during the council. She had mistaken his look for one of reproach then but now she knew it to be a silent apology he had hoped she alone would understand _. I wish I could have done more but nothing in life has any business being perfect_. Indeed! Life was not perfect or fair, unless one made it so. He had promised her his people would come to see her for who she truly was and he had failed to live up to that promise. That was not an easy thing for a man like him to admit.

 “Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “There are whispers going around Winterfell that the Warden of the North is taking steps to distance himself from you.”

“Whispers,” she scoffed. “Are we to be influenced by the words of fish mongers and midwives?”

“Of course not. But since the council, Jon Snow’s absence has been noted.”

 “Surely there are more pressing concerns than our parading in front of the North like a pair of prized peacocks,” she said, trying to suppress the small part of herself that saw reason in her Hand’s words. “We are at war!”

“And where is that war exactly?” Tyrion said, through gritted teeth.

It had become a grating habit of his. He seemed to find her underbelly every time and strike at it, making her lose her temper.

Luckily they were both spared the angry words that would have certainly followed when  they both noticed Sansa Stark a few feet away, leaning against the balcony railing. She did not seem to have heard them but still, both Tyrion and her stopped and looked on ahead. She was talking to a young girl, one of her handmaiden’s she would have assumed except for the fact that the girl was holding a young child in her arms. She had seen her a few times around the castle hallways. A very strange creature, wrapped up in furs from head to toe, with large doe eyes and unruly hair.  She looked troubled and Sansa’s hand rested comfortably on her shoulder while they continued to speak in hushed tones.

“I’ll take care of little Sam. Go talk to him,” she whispered hurriedly taking the baby out of his mother’s arms and holding him, as the girl left towards the stairs.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said, announcing their presence.

She spun on her heels, holding the babe close to her chest. She took a moment to acknowledge them, before curtsying. “Your Grace. My Lord,” she said.

Daenerys studied her, attempting to see if there was anything beyond the serene face she displayed. She was nothing like she had been led to believe, that was certain. A woman fully grown, with high cheekbones and a serious disposition, punctuated by a smile that Daenerys knew some foolish man or servant had told her to display in order to please. A far cry from the young, innocent child her Hand remembered saving from his sister’s wrath.

Tyrion had been filled with words of praise for her beauty and ability to charm the court in King’s Landing. On the trip to White Harbor, he spoke of it often. So much so that Daenerys found herself losing her patience and having to stop him.

What she had been interested to know then was Winterfell, wanting more details about Jon’s home and breech the silence she was met with every time she asked her lover about it. She had attempted to picture it in her mind and Tyrion filled in the details, creating an illusion of a charmed castle in the middle of a snow covered world. He told her of the great stone walls, solar and gardens, his eyes lighting up at the memory.

It had been rather disappointing to find nothing of the charm and grandeur she had been expecting. Winterfell was cold and rough, sitting beneath grey skies with dirt covered yards and creaking wooden floors. Still, it was the most impressive structure in the North and Tyrion coveted it even now. When he had been married to Sansa Stark, he stood to become its liege and lord and her Hand was an ambitious man.

“You look different today,” Tyrion said, his eyes admiring the sight of the maid holding a babe. The little boy must have been attracted to her red hair because his fingers toyed with the strands that he could grasp out of her long braid, while she patted his back gently and rocked back and forth on her feet. “It suits you,” he continued.

Tyrion had a way of making light of anything he was not entirely comfortable with but Daenerys had noticed the warmth beneath his words anytime he spoke of her. When looking at her tall, slender frame and delicate features she supposed she must have been pretty even as a young girl. Perhaps a little simple, she allowed. Her conversation did not make it past stories concerning her house and family. Which was to be expected. So many women were forced to live such little lives. Still, most men would prefer a simple wife to one who knew her own mind. Particularly one that blushed as prettily as Sansa Stark.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said shyly, dropping her eyes.

It did not take much to flatter her, Daenerys noted. “Who is your charming companion?” she asked.

“This is Little Sam, Your Grace,” she said.

The boy was big and plump for his age, blond hair peeking through beneath his woolen cap. He looked at her wide eyed and smiling.  _Would Rhaego have smiled at me like that?_ The thought was too painful to contemplate and she stepped back. _When I touched him, his skin fell away. He had been dead for years._

Daenerys turned her back to the babe and looked over the balcony, gripping the railing tightly. She forced herself not to pay any heed to the conversation between Sansa and Tyrion, as she began talking about Little Sam and his parents.

In the court yard below, people had gathered around to watch the Warden of the North sparing with two young men. The sight of Jon Snow, the ease with which he moved enthralled her and soon enough, all she could see was him and all she could hear was his voice as he instructed the youths on how to hold their swords or lunge.

Daario had once told her that you could always tell how a man made love by the way he fought. If that were true, Jon Snow would be the world’s greatest lover. She smiled at the thought.

Truth be told, Jon was a far better fighter than he was a lover. Out there, in the court yard, he lunged forward barring the sword in front of him before quickly turning to fend off the other. In bed, his hands were unsure, hesitant, his mouth a little too forceful at times and at others not forceful enough. Now, he moved with grace and ease, his sword a mere extension of his arm while at night, his movements were staggering and awkward.

His eyes were focused and resolute as he pushed the steel of his blade forward with one thrust, grabbing the boy behind him by the collar and pushing him towards his other opponent, an easy laugh blooming from him. In her bed, he was all seriousness and stoicism, as if afraid of doing something wrong.

And yet her stomach churned as he looked up and saw her. She longed to have his awkward hands on her, his ragged, shy breaths falling on her naked breast. She wanted to run her fingers over the scar next to his heart, even though he might shiver and pull away. The thought of that impossible scar that marked him as assuredly as hatching the dragons had done her, stirred her insides and set her cheeks aflame, as it had done the first night she had called him to her. The thought of this man, that had beaten death itself, falling into passion for the first time in his life was as exhilarating now as it had been then.

As he starred up at her in awe, his eyes warm and glowing, the stern expression she had been used to receiving in the past weeks was gone. She felt tingles moving up and down her spine as he drank her in, his eyes hungry and reverent and she knew that what was between them was stronger than the squabble of a few mindless lords, stronger than the rejection of people who did not deserve him.

So lost in her gaze was he that he failed to see one of the young boys lunging at him. The sword hit him flush against the shoulder and Jon staggered on his feet, reluctantly turning his attention back to the fight. He took two long strides towards the boy, pushing the sword out of his hands The freckled child looked at him fearfully and retreated quickly, tripping over a rock and falling to the ground.

Jon stood above him, the tip of the practice sword at his throat. “When you go after someone in a fight, don’t stop until you finish him,” he said.

“Training seems to be going well,” she heard Tyrion say.

“As well as can be expected,” Sansa replied. “Most of them have never held a sword in their lives. They’re farmers and sheep herders, not soldiers.”

“They can’t all be as skilled as your brother,” she said, finally turning her attention to them.

“No,” Sansa said, smiling sweetly. “Jon was always the most skilled swordsman in the family.”

“That is an impressive boast,” Tyrion said. “The Starks are renowned for their prowess in battle.”

Tyrion’s tone had been light but it seemed to shatter the light in the Stark girl’s eyes. She dropped her head and buried her face in Little Sam’s nape. He had fallen asleep in her arms and she kept one of her hands protectively around his little head, while rocking him.

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said, putting his hand on her arm to comfort her. “I did not mean to bring up bad memories. War is a dangerous business.”

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“Even more so when parties fight together with decades long conflicts still left unresolved.”

Daenerys couldn’t help a small smile. Tyrion always knew how to turn even the most awkward situation to his advantage. Sansa didn’t seem to notice. She looked at him, her eyes large and innocent like a fawn caught in the trail of a hunter.

“It couldn’t have escaped your notice that the Lords of the North have not exactly been welcoming to our queen.”

Sansa looked at them and swallowed, fear most likely gripping her. Daenerys smiled back at her warmly, trying to make her feel at ease.

“We cannot have conflict in our midst,” she said. “We must stand united.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Sansa said her voice hesitant. “And we will be. But it takes time. Northerners are different. They’re more suspicious of outsiders.”

“Outsiders?” Daenerys replied, the word turning to ash in her mouth.

How many times had she heard that? How many privileged lord’s daughters looked at her the way Sansa Stark was doing now? Even as far back as Braavos, through Essos and Meereen. They all treated her like a stranger looking in on what did not belong to her. As if any of them could have gone through what she had gone through. “I am not an outsider. My family ruled this land for 300 hundred years.”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” Sansa said quickly. “I did not mean to give offence.”

“Of course not!” Tyrion intervened. “What the queen meant …”

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself!” she cut him off. She advanced towards Sansa. “I have come here to save the North and yet the North seems to reject its rightful queen.”

“We are most grateful for your help,” the lady replied and this time there was no hesitation in her voice. It seemed almost defiant.

She had wished to be understanding but this situation had gone on long enough. She held her chin high and her voice sounded like the roaring of a dragon, making her feel secure and in charge again. “Call your bannermen, Lady Stark. Tell them their queen wants words with them.”

***

Sansa passed through the corridor quickly, tightening the grip on the book she was holding in her hand. Her heart was beating out of her chest as she made her way through the East Wing and it only made her hurry her steps, fearing that is she hesitated even for a moment, she would not be able to go ahead with what she needed to do.

When she reached the queen’s chamber, she stopped and took a deep breath. She inwardly cursed her petty decision to give her the room Ramsay Bolton had occupied. Sansa had managed to eradicate him from every corner of Winterfell, except for this room. It still reeked of him, every bit of it stained with the blood and tears he had forced out of her. It seemed fitting that her silent rebellion against Jon and his queen would come back to haunt her. She had never intended to lay eyes on it again and still there she was knocking on the door and waiting meekly for an answer, while her hands fidgeted with the book.

“Come in,” she heard at last.

The room was brightened with dozens of candles, filling the air with incents and smoke. It was hot and stifling, as the fire raged in the hearth and threatened to spill over as the wood cracked and sparked.

The room bore little resemblance to what she remembered and she was grateful for it. The queen’s servants had dressed the bed posts in layers of expensive blue silks and laid rich red velvets embroidered with strand of gold over the mattress.

The queen sat next to the hearth on a makeshift throne, covered in expensive furs while her naked feet rested on a large feather pillow to stave off the cold.

“Lady Sansa,” she said. “So good of you to visit.”

She was wearing a long, flowing white dress, far to flimsy for the Northern winter. Her hair was unbraided and her handmaiden was slowly brushing it, her eyes filled with reverence. In the soft light of the candles and attended by her faithful follower, she looked not a woman, not even a queen but the Maiden herself.

“How are the preparations going?” she asked. Her tone had softened but her manner was as implacable as it had been a few days before.

“The ravens have returned with favorable answers from all the houses,” she said. “They will be here tomorrow as instructed.”

“Good.”

Even as she spoke, Sansa’s mind still wondered aimlessly trying to figure out how to steer the intractable queen towards where she needed her. The confrontation had left her reeling and doubtful. She knew now that she had to pick her words more carefully. Her slip the other day had cost her dearly. But which were the right words? She did not yet know.

She took a few steps towards her and tried to smile. “I took the liberty of bringing you a gift, Your Grace,” she said, holding out the leather bound book.

“What is it?” the queen asked, disinterested as she signaled to her handmaiden to take the parcel from Sansa.

“It is a recounting of Aegon the Conqueror’s stay at Winterfell.”

This seemed to peak her interest as she extended her hand to receive it. She looked at it for a moment, her fingers caressing the leather. “How extraordinary! Where did you find this?”

“It was hidden in the library. The Maester at the time was an amateur historian. He recorded all the goings on of the Winterfell court during his tenure.”

Her features softened and she smiled as she gingerly opened it. She quickly flickered through the pages, stopping to read passages here and there and Sansa’s heart beat began to slow down. She came closer to the queen whose eyes had widened as she lost herself in between the written words.

“Look, Missandei,” Daenerys said, bright and excited like a little girl. As her handmaiden leaned over and touched the book, the queen’s hands gripped it tighter, unwilling to let it go. “Here it talks about Balerion! _He is by far the largest of the three dragons_ ,” she quoted. “ _Black as night but swift as an arrow flying through the sky, the flap of his wings rustling forests as he moves, his teeth as long as swords. Terrifying and regal all at once, he is truly a creature fit for a king_.” She looked up and smiled. “Doesn’t it sound similar to Drogon?”

“It does, my queen,” Missandei replied softly, as enchanted with the description as her mistress.

“The Maester also goes at great lengths to describe the king’s sisters, Visenya and Rahenys,” Sansa said.

Daenerys looked up at her and to Sansa’s great relief the apprehension and coldness was all but gone from her face.

“Please,” she said, pointing to the chair in front of her. “Sit down, my lady.”

Sansa brought it closer to the queen’s throne and settled in as Daenerys began reading to both her and Missandei. Her voice was warm and she read slowly, relishing every word as if she was discovering a hidden treasure with every turn of the page. She read about Visenya with the long silver braids, a warrior wielding the great Dark Sister, and about Rahenys, the graceful dragonrider that was as fond of flight as she was of poetry.

As time passed, Sansa grew ever more impatient with the tale. She grit her teeth and dug her nails into the back of her palm to stop herself from fidgeting. _It takes patience to get a piece to move itself, sweetling,_ Littlefinger had told her once. _Push it too quickly and it ruins the game._

So she laid back in her chair and listened. She listened as Daenerys read admiringly of Aegon and his sisters landing their three dragons in front of Torrhen Stark and his army of thirty thousand men. Of how the King in the North had been so overwhelmed by the might of Aegon that he knelt at his feet, handing over his crown and his people. She even smiled as Daenerys spoke of oaths and debts owed to House Targaryen.

And then, at long last, the dragon queen reached the final pages.

“ _A great feast had been arranged in honor of the new king. Dornish red and ale flowed from dusk till dawn. The great Northern lords dinned on fine meats, their bellies full and tempers warmer than they had been on the battlefield. King Aegon entered the Great Hall, well after the sun had set together with his sisterwives, all dressed in the fine furs and Northern styles of the region and …_ ”

Daenerys stopped reading and as she looked up at her, Sansa’s held her breath. But the queen’s face was not marked by anger or suspicion, but rather consideration. “Your Maester seems to be implying that Aegon planned the feast to appease the Northern Lords,” she said.

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” Sansa said. “Perhaps your ancestor was more familiar with Northerners than the maester would allow…”

“How so?”

“Northerners can seem harsh and brutish, at first. Unlike in the South, they dislike and even mistrust formality. But break bread with them, let them regale you with stories of their hunts or battles, and they soon grow comfortable.”

“And the wearing of clothing in the Northern style?”

Sansa’s eyes wandered, feigning uncertainty. Spoken too quickly, the answer might seem dishonest.

“Forgive me, my queen,” Missandei said in a trained, melodic voice, giving Sansa the distance that she needed. “But it is customary in many parts of the world for members of the royal family to dress in the traditional grab of the region they are visiting, as a means of building trust.”

Daenerys nodded pensively as she lowered her gaze back to the book and brushed over the words with her fingers. It seemed like an eternity passed until she spoke again but when she did it took all of Sansa’s willpower not to exhale loudly in relief.

“I think we should make some changes for tomorrow. But I will need your help, my lady,” she said taking Sansa’s hand.

She smiled at the queen, shyly, from below her lashes as she had been trained to do. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Hours later, as she found herself kneeling before Daenerys Targaryen, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, Sansa couldn’t help but remember her time in King’s Landing. She remembered being scrubbed in the bath house until her skin was raw by hard, unyielding hands. She remembered the queen’s henchwomen pulling at her hair, tightening and twisting it into the Southern styles Cersei forced on her. She remembered being squeezed into an overly tight wedding dress like a stuffed pig sent to the lord’s dinner table. After Shae, her only true friend, had been taken from her, she vowed never to have handmaidens again.

She drew a sharp breath and willed her hands from trembling as she folded the thick woolen material onto itself and secured it with a pin.

“Hold it as straight as you can,” she instructed Missandei, placing her hands on the length of the back of the skirts, “while I secure the front.”

It was heavy brown knitted wool with black silk inserts on the sleeves and sides of the skirts that caught the light when it moved.  Sansa had started it after Jon had left for Dragonstone and it had taken her weeks to painstakingly add the large embroidery of a weirwood tree that covered the back of the bodice, in silver thread. The branches twisted and wrapped around the waist and chest area and she had added mother of pearl beads so that it might sparkle in the warm candle light.

She didn’t have anywhere to wear it and she didn’t quite know why she had wasted so much time on it, except for keeping her mind occupied during long sleepless nights. It had been a good thing she had though as it was the most extravagant garment she owned and she doubted the queen would have accepted anything less. Unfortunately, Daenerys was far shorter than her and the dress would need adjusting at the shoulders and waist as well, which would mean also having to redo part of the beading on the bodice.

“This is beautiful,” the queen said, running her hands down the front of the dress. “And you say you made it yourself?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I didn’t think a lord’s daughter had much time for such things.”

“All the ladies in the North are taught to saw and knit from a very young age,” Sansa replied, ignoring the queen’s condescending tone. “Winters here are long. Something always needs mending or replacing.”

“Did you make your own dresses in King’s Landing as well?”

“No,” Sansa said, biting her lip as she pushed another pin through the hem of the dress. “The … Cersei had one of her dressmakers make them.”

“Tyrion has told me of her behavior towards you,” she said, her voice not unkind. “I am very sorry you had to go through that.”

Sansa raised her head and looked at the queen. She was smiling warmly, her eyes filled with compassion.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.

“It must have been very difficult for you to be faced with Tyrion after so much time. I understand you did not wish to marry him.”

Sansa swallowed, unsure how to answer.  She wondered if it was truly concern that had made Daenerys Targaryen ask her such a direct question. Was she trying to find out if she harbored resentment towards her Hand? “I was very young when I married him, Your Grace,” she began tentatively, dropping her head and continuing to fold the skirts. “Kept as a hostage by Cersei Lannister, far away from my home and my family. I did not wish to marry at all.”

“I understand. I was in a similar position once. Married to a man I did not choose and wanting desperately to go home.”

Sansa had finished folding the hem and had to stand up. The queen had fallen in melancholy, and as her handmaiden undressed her, she stared blankly ahead as if trying to picture something that did not come to mind easily.

“In time, I grew to love my husband very much,” she said, her voice an unsteady whisper. “But it wasn’t easy.” Daenerys looked at Sansa, studying her and she took her hand between her own gently. “Was Tyrion unkind to you? Don’t be afraid to tell me if he disrespected you in any way.”

Sansa smiled faintly. “In truth, Lord Tyrion was kind … gentle. He never …,” she said, repeating the very words she had once uttered in that room.

 _You are not lying to me? Lying to your husband on his wedding night …That would be a bad way to start a marriage._ She could almost hear his voice bouncing off the walls, reverberating in her ears, through the rustles of the dress Missandei was folding and placing on the bed. Her hands turned cold.

Daenerys seemed satisfied with the answer. “Good. I would very much like for you and him to be on good terms. A … good relationship between the Hand of the queen and her most important ally will help Westeros greatly.”

A sharp pain traveled through Sansa’s chest and her vision became blurred. She nodded quickly, as she struggled to breathe. “I really must get going on the dress if it is to be finished by tomorrow,” she said, hurrying to the bed and grabbing the garment.

She curtsied quickly and ran out of the room, before the queen or her handmaiden could say another word.

It all became a blur around her and it was only later, as she made her way to the godswood that her vision began to clear and she realized that every bone in her body was shaking. She tried to put as much distance between herself and the castle so she kept on drudging through the snow, towards the weirwood tree. The lacing around her neck seemed to tighten like a vice and she pulled at the leather string until it came undone, dropping the cloak on the ground.

 _How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I see it?_ She had thought that the annulment Littlefinger had procured from the High Septon would keep her safe. But there was nothing to stave off a second marriage between herself and Tyrion. _No!_

As the trail widened, her steps slowed down as tears began to sting her eyes. How could she be back here again? She had tried so hard to escape but she always found herself being dragged to the same place, over and over again. She would not be Lady Lannister. She would not allow herself to be dragged off to King’s Landing once more. Forced into the imp’s bed for the sake of yet another queen. Not only an imp, but by the end of this war, a kin slayer as well. _No!_ She was the Lady of Winterfell. Her place was here, with her family.

By the time she reached the heart tree, she was out of breath. She found Sam standing next to the lake, looking down, at the frozen surface, hunched over, his face marked with grief. As she came closer, he finally heard her and looked up.

“Did it work?” he asked, a sad smile barely forming on his lips.

She cleared her voice before speaking, to hide the shakiness. “It did. Thank you, Sam.”

“I always wanted to write a book.” There was almost a childlike wonder in him but it was soon drowned and his eyes became placid and dull again.

“How are you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I came here to pray,” he said. “Don’t know why. We always upheld the Seven in my family. But when I took my vows for the Night’s Watch, I did it in front of a weirwood tree and I thought …” He shook his head, sadly. “I don’t think the old gods answer prayers any more than the new ones.”

Sansa looked at the gaping face of the tree, red sap still trailing down its bark and couldn’t help but agree. She didn’t even know why she had come here, except perhaps because it was far enough away from troubles and quiet enough to think.

“I wrote to my mother and sister today,” he continued. “But who knows if the raven will even arrive. They’re all alone now …” His voice trailed off, strangled with pain.

 “I’m so sorry. If there’s anything we can do for them, you only need ask.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Sam nodded and turned back towards the lake. “My father was a hard man. Cruel, really,” he said, after a while. “He hated me. Told me that I wasn’t fit to be his son. Sent me to the wall because he couldn’t bare the sight of me.”

He wiped furiously at his eyes with his sleeve but he went on. Sansa thought of stopping him but found that she couldn’t. “He loved Dickon, though. He was everything I wasn’t: tall, handsome, strong and brave. My father put a sword in his hand when he was five years old and in a year he was laying boys twice his age down. If you would have asked anyone in the Reach, they would have told you Dickon Tarly was the best hunter there was.”

He looked at her, his eyes still wet with tears. “I thought I hated him for the longest time, you see. Why did he have to be so good at everything?” he said. “But then I realized … the worse I was, the better he had to be. He didn’t just have to be good for himself, or for my father but because I wasn’t.”

Sansa shook her head. “No … you can’t blame yourself, Sam. It wasn’t your fault.”

“If I had been the son my father wanted, Dickon wouldn’t have been on that battlefield. He would have been at home, hunting a boar or flinging his practice sword at a straw man. And my mother and sister wouldn’t be alone now.”

Sansa found herself unable to respond. _If I hadn’t insisted on marrying Joffery, father might still be alive. If I had told the truth, Lady might not have been killed. If I had been stronger, I would have fought them when they gave me away to the Imp._ How many times had those thoughts crossed her mind? How many times did she find herself under Ramsay’s hands and thought that she had brought it on herself?

The rustling of footsteps made them both flinch and turn around. Jon peered up from behind the trees, followed closely by Ghost who came darting at her feet. His master advanced more slowly, holding the cloak she had discarded in his hand. He looked at Sam, guilt evident on his face.

“I’d best get back,” Sam said, wiping at his tears again.

As he tried to leave, Jon blocked his way and put his hand on his arm. “Sam, please,” he said. “Don’t go. We need to talk.”

At the contact, Sam jumped as if he had been burnt. He starred at Jon, from beneath a frown, his eyes blazing with anger. “What is it that you need, my lord?”

“Don’t talk like that! You know me. I would have never … She didn’t tell me, Sam. I found out at the Council, same as you.”

Sam stepped back and looked down at his feet. “I promised Gilly I’d help with Little Sam tonight,” he said. “I have to go.”

Jon’s face as he watched his friend walk away from him almost broke Sansa’s heart. He was miserable and judging by his slumped shoulders, exhausted. She instinctively reached down for Ghost and scratched him behind the ear. The wolf pressed closer to her leg, the warmth of his fur melting off the cold off her skin and he nuzzled his nose in her palm.

“He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I knew and didn’t tell him, doesn’t he?”

“He just needs time, Jon. He’s mourning.”

“I still can’t believe she would do that…”

“Why?” she asked, angry at his attempt at defending her. “She’s the Mad King’s daughter.”

He dropped his gaze. “Aye. And I’m his grandson.”

Sansa sighed and sat down on one of the lower branches of the tree. She was far too tired to think straight, had too much on her mind to ease his own.

“You dropped this in the woods,” Jon said, holding out her cloak. “You must be freezing.”

He came up to her and leaned over just enough to drape it around her shoulders. She raised her head to look at him and her nose bumped into his.

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes widening before stepping back quickly. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t really understand why he apologized but she found herself fidgeting with the lacing on the cloak for far too long. Her nose itched strangely and she rubbed it quickly, trying to dull the sensation.

As the silence dragged on, she began speaking, trying desperately to fill it with something … anything other than the way his eyes burned into her. “I was in the queen’s chamber. It was very hot. So when I came outside, I just needed to feel the cold and …” Her voice trailed off, not knowing what to say next.

“I wish you didn’t have to call the bannermen,” he finally said. “It’s too soon after what happened.”

“She didn’t leave me much choice in the matter.”

“You really think a feast will stop Daenerys and the Lords from ripping each other apart?”

“If there’s enough ale, which there will be … And if the music is loud enough, which it will be … Perhaps we’ll make it through the night.”

He gave out a frustrated laugh and rubbed the back of his hand on his forehead. “I thought getting her and the dragons here was the hard part. Now I have the Lords at my throat for bending the knee, thousands of men that can’t stand each other but need to fight together and a queen that wants me to attend meetings discussing the latest scroll from Cersei Lannister.”

“Perhaps it’s time you start attending those meetings.”

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t pretend to care about her war in the South when the army of the dead is marching on us. And I can’t be in a room with her, knowing what she is and what I am.”

 “You’ve been avoiding her since the Council and people are starting to talk. Soon enough they’ll be suspicious and so will she.”

 “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he said, looking at her. “If she finds out who I am …”

She closed her eyes, a ragged breath escaping her. She had fought it for long enough and so had he. There was no denying it. The truth of his parentage changed whatever order he had managed to mangle together when he brought the dragon queen here. Pretending that they could hold things as they were indefinitely seemed harder every day. An idea began forming in her mind. One that would rid both of them of their problems. “Perhaps there’s another way,” she said.

“What way?”

“We could get married.” As she heard the words, she realized she hadn’t truly thought it through but, as Jon looked at her, for some reason it didn’t seem as strange or ridiculous as it should have been. Not at first at least. As moments passed though, dread and shock washing over his face, she found her cheeks burning with shame.

“What did you say?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

She swallowed hard and looked down. _Is it so terrible?_ A small voice inside of her asked. “I … I only meant that you are a threat to her as long as you’re an heir to the throne. But if you were to renounce your claim and marry in order to keep the North, then …”

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked. “That I would …”

He couldn’t even finish the thought and, as she looked up at him, his anger and disappointment felt as if he had slapped her across the face. Perhaps he was even disgusted. It was disgusting, wasn’t it? _She wants me to marry the Imp!_ she wanted to scream. _Is that what you want?_

“Or is it something else?” he said, gritting his teeth. “You still don’t trust me.”

Sansa shook her head sadly but couldn’t open her mouth to say anything. She looked down, hoping the ground would swallow her whole.

“Just say it!” he yelled. “You’re afraid I’m going to betray you so you think you need to buy my loyalty with …”

“How dare you!” She stood up, tears of anger or exhaustion, she didn’t quite know, falling rapidly onto her frozen cheeks. “You accuse me of not trusting you after all I’ve done?” She was gripped with panic and humiliation and she found it hard to speak over the lump in her throat. When the words came out they were hard and raspy. “I was the one that held the North for you while you were gallivanting across the South with a mistress. I was the first to defend you in front your subjects when you bended the knee without consulting them. I was the one who spent the last few hours on my hands and knees making your queen a dress in the hopes she’ll keep her mouth shut long enough not to endanger your hold on the North. My trust is the last thing that you should be worried about.”

She was shaking so hard that she wondered how it was that she was still standing up. He attempted to come towards her and she stepped back, unable to bear it. “I have to go,” she said. Whatever solace Sansa had hoped to find in the godswood had flown away. There was no respite and the Gods were silent.

***

The pack charged through the woods, paws hitting the surface of the snow, crunching it beneath their bodies. She led the charge, feeling the cold wind rushing past her, but she did not feel the frozen air bite into her. She had no skin, only layers of fur. She raised her long nose and sniffed, her senses filled with the musty, wet earth beneath the snow, the warm spiced tinge of beasts great and small cowering away in fear as her pack trudged on, on the hunt. And above all else, she smelt blood, warm and sweet, iron against her rough tongue.

The game was scarce now that winter had come but they had tracked down a large, fat stag. Slashed at his back legs until he limped and gave out a loud, desperate cry that filled her ears and ignited her lust. She had charged for the neck then but the stag had put down his antlers, pointing them at her and he almost managed to pierce through her skull. Out of sheer instinct, he had struggled free and started running, trampling one of her cousins underneath his giant hooves.

The wolves followed, stalked, running the animal into the ground, until she could hear his pace slowing _. It won’t be long now_ , she thought. She could almost see him: his limps growing fainter as moments passed until finally he collapsed on the ground. Ripe for taking, warm enough for feeding.

As they came out from behind the trees into the clearing, the stag was on the frozen ground. Foam had built up around his mouth and he struggled for breath. She slowed her pace, while the pack encircled him. She came closer, inhaling the intoxicating smell of mingled blood and fear. She barred her sharp fangs and buried them deep into the stag’s neck. The animal struggled for a moment, letting out a hard, strangled moan before collapsing.

The rest of her pack joined her and she devoured the meat, enjoying the sweet taste of the bloodied flesh as she ripped it from the bone. Her ears prickled at the sound of footsteps behind her and she turned around quickly, snarling, ready to pounce on the intruder.

It was Jaqen H’ghar. _He’s not supposed to be here_ , she thought. _He’s not here at all_. And yet there he was. His long red and white hair hanging lose around his shoulders, his green eyes calm, dressed in the same robes he had on the last time she saw him in the House of Black and White.

All of her cousins growled at him but none of them attacked as Jaqen came closer.

“A girl has stolen from the Many Faced God,” he said.

 _He must mean the masks I took_ , she thought. She snarled again, blood dripping from the fur around her mouth. _I’m not a girl. I’m a wolf._

“It makes no difference to the Many Faced God. A debt is owed and it must be paid.”

 

Arya was still thinking about her wolf dream as she entered Winter Town. It filled her with an uneasy feeling and she hated it. Her wolf dreams were always so sweet, so alive. They weren’t supposed to end that way. The moment Jaqen had spoken of the debt, she had been pushed out of Nymeria’s body and back into her own, on the frozen ground, in the woods outside Castle Cerwyn, miles away from her pack.

That had not happened in a long time. She had been able to slip in and out of Nymeria’s skin as easily as changing sword hands for years. And Jaqen … he was there but not there. She could see him but not smell him. Heard him move, saw his pulse beating steadily under the skin of his neck but he did not shiver from the cold and his clothes were not damp from the snow.

Perhaps she imagined it. Her wolf dreams still made her wonder sometimes and she had been starving and freezing. She had avoided calling on the Cerwyn’s gates, preferring the safe darkness of the woods so as not to alert anyone to her whereabouts. Perhaps some of the girl had slipped into the wolf. _It must have been that_ …

The bustle of the crowded town outside of Winterfell made forgetting about it easier. The Boltons had left Winter Town a right mess. Run down houses and burnt wood everywhere. But still, winter was here and so were the Starks once again. So the northerners had returned, seeking the warmth of the springs beneath the ground. They labored hard on their keeps, even in the heavy snows and they could finally haul water from the well that had been covered in muck when she had left.

But it wasn’t just northerners in Winter Town now. Hundreds of copper skinned men, with long, braided hair were walking around, torches in hand, their eyes unaccustomed to the dark, long nights of the North. They had erected their pelt tents around the town and inside of it, as if the place belonged to them. And then there were the other men, with dark skin, the Unsullied, all dressed in armor, even in this cold, their eyes sad and hard at the same time. Arya liked them better than the copper men. They were quiet and kept to themselves.

She had left her horse at the Smoking Log and made her way towards the market square. This was where the most people were and Arya blended in. She had learned not to mind the crowd, bumping into bodies left and right, the confusion of legs walking in all direction. Braavos and King’s Landing were far more crowded than this and she had found solace in the anonymity the big cities gave her.

She stopped in front of a turnip stand and smiled as the old woman selling her meager crop bid her to buy. She was reaching for a purse when a torch flew past her, dangerously close, the light momentarily blinding her. The Dothraki holding it pushed her to the side and out of his way. Her back hit the wooden stand and she let out a grunt, as the man walked on as if he hadn’t even noticed.

Her hand ran over the bulge of her left sleeve, feeling the length of her dagger. She wished she had Needle with her but it didn’t fit under the itchy dress Sansa had made her wear. She had changed into it before the town came into sight. The skirts alone would hinder her if she were to go after the man now.

She reluctantly turned back to the stand, paid the lady for her turnips and moved on, towards the gates, while her mind’s eye traced over the heavy hooded black eyes, the boney cheeks and wide nose. She would remember that face.

“Thirty arrowheads?”

It seemed to Arya that his voice had grown deeper since last she heard it but he still slurred his ls and rs and he still had that way of raising his tone on the last word. She turned around and saw him across the street, talking to the blacksmith. _Gendry_.

She had seen him before, soon after Jon had arrived with the Dragon Queen. She had wanted to run up straight to him and call him stupid for wanting to stay with the Brotherhood. She wanted to tell him she was happy he was alive and that she had put the Fire Witch and Beric on her list, just for him.

But Gendry was impulsive and rash. What if he started talking about how they met or what they did? That could hardly work with the Silent Sister story she and Sansa had agreed on. And there were far too many eyes at Winterfell. Here, though? In Winter Town, where copper skinned men mingled with the northerners. There were so many unknown faces here, people accustomed to not looking at what anyone else was doing and minding their own business. Perhaps here, talking to him would be safe. Who would recognize a girl out of hundreds? For a moment, the thought that he might not recognize her crossed her mind. _He will, though_ , she told herself.

She crossed the street and came closer to the shop. She still kept her distance, unsure if she should go through with it. But there was no harm in looking. He had gotten taller and thicker too. He’d grown a beard, like his father once had. Although try as she might, aside from the hair, she couldn’t see much of the old, fat king in him. _He doesn’t even suit a beard_ , she thought. Although the the black hair and dark grime on his face did make his eyes stand out. She had always liked his eyes, blue as the Blackwater. They had reminded her of Robb’s. Clever, inquisitive but kind. Although Gendry’s were narrower and sharper, storming sometimes when he got angry.

Like now. He kept his arms on his hips and looked at the old blacksmith in shock. “I gave you a crate full of dragon glass and you made thirty arrows?”

The man was confused. “The rest smashed into flakes the moment I hit the rock. What was I supposed to do with ‘em?”

“Make more arrows,” Gendry said. “You hit the ridge with the bopper and thin the edges out. Like I showed you.”

The man turned around, dismissing him. “I’m a blacksmith, boy. Been one since before you were suckling on your Southern mother’s tit. I forge steel, not play with rocks.”

“That’s all fine and good. But all that fine steel isn’t going to help when the dead come. Dragon glass is and we need a lot more than thirty arrows.”

The man shrugged and went on about the shop, pushing a useless iron rod into the fire, as he had done all his life.

Gendry sighed. “Where’re the flakes?”

“Threw them away. There behind the shop.”

“Seven hells!” Gendry shook his head and headed for the exit. “Come on, Pod!”

She turned around quickly, to hide her face. She had been so focused on the conversation that she had failed to see Brienne of Tarth’s squire standing next to Gendry. He came running out, after him, his hand awkwardly on the hilt of his sword.

 _Pod already knows too much_ , she reminded herself. He had seen her sparring with his mistress. He seemed trustworthy enough but if he knew about Gendry as well, that would only complicate things.

“Eventide, my lady,” Pod said.

She must not have been fast enough because she was certain that Pod was talking to her. Sure enough, when she turned sheepishly to face him, both him and Gendry were looking at her. Pod had the same placid, polite expression he always did but his companion was stone faced and cold. Perhaps Gendry didn’t recognize her after all … Had she changed so much? She had been short and scrawny then. Her hair filthy and her face covered in muck, wearing rags meant to pass her off as a boy.

“Lady Sansa said you have been feeling poorly for the past moon,” Pod continued.

“I have,” she said. “But I felt better today so I thought I’d walk into town.”

“Would you like us to escort you?”

“No,” she said, looking at Gendry. He kept looking at her blankly but she could detect some hostility underneath it all. “I won’t be long.”

“As milady commands.”

 _He does remember._ His face held the same confident look, half mocking her, half serious. She was about to say something. Something stupid, most likely that would have gotten her in trouble. It was a good thing that scream came when it did.

It was loud and high enough to pierce her ears. All three of them turned their attention towards where it was coming from and as they looked up, they saw flames and smoke rise up from behind the market stalls and shops.

“It’s the granary,” she said, before she started running.

By the time the three of them made their way to the huge wooden building, the fighting had already begun. Men were coming out of their houses with pikes and pitchforks. Most ran into the Dothraki’s curved blades and were thrown to the ground while the copper warriors shoved their swords into them, slashing at necks and stomachs alike. One was being dragged by his hair and his face forced into the snow. He struggled as he was held, his arms and legs flinging uselessly. The Dothraki held him there, laughing, shouting words no one could understand until the man’s limbs dropped coldly on the snow.

The flames from the granary were slowly spreading towards the other buildings but no one was paying attention. Screams and steel mingling with steel blended with the roaring of the fire and the sparking of wood being charred.

“We have to stop the fire,” Gendry said. Him and Pod started running towards the well.

Arya would have followed if another scream hadn’t stopped her. Through the panic and confusion around her, she saw the woman being thrown on the ground, her clothes torn off while two Dothraki were holding her down. A third was spreading her legs even as she desperately tried to push at them.

She should have been scared, she knew. Perhaps in another life, she would have been. But the sight only spurred her on. Her vision turned to black and all she could feel was the cold steel against the skin of her arm as she drew her knife. She dodged and pushed at everything that stood in her way, men in the midst of battle, abandoned carts, even a couple of wandering sheep that came running out of nowhere, running desperately away from the fire and the blood.

She came upon the man from behind, grabbed his long braid and pulled it until his neck was in reach and she quickly drew the blade across it. The blood spilled stained the snow beneath and he fell to the ground as soon as she released him.

The other two men let go of the woman and came for her, taking out their swords. She tightened her grip on the knife and waited for them to pounce.

She heard the whooshing of the arrow first. Then the metal tip pierced the Dothraki to her left through the neck. He fell to the ground and a second arrow pierced the other man through the heart, as he turned. Disappointment was all she could feel as she looked down at the man holding onto his arrow pierced neck and convulsing, as he slowly chocked to death. She

She searched through the crowd for the archer responsible and fifty paces away from her, she found him. It was Theon. Skinnier than she remembered, his eyes reddened and his smirk gone. She had never liked him. Not even when they were children. He was always cruel to Jon, making jokes at his expense, calling him a bastard when he knew how much it hurt him.

But she could never truly hate him then because Robb loved him. He was his best friend.  A dead kind of anger gripped her as she looked at him and met his eye. _You shouldn’t have come here_ , Arya thought and a frozen smile tugged at her lips. She began running towards him, already imagining burying her dagger in his gut screaming: _For Robb!_

Something blocked her way. Big and hard, it grabbed her by the waist and pulling at her, even as she struggled, twisting herself to reach flesh with her dagger.

“Where are you going, girl?” The Hound snarled. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Let me go!” she screamed. She struggled, kicking at his legs, wrangling her arms trying to get them lose but it was no use. Sirio had taught her that when faced with a much larger opponent, you had to keep your distance or you’d lose. She saw Theon fading further and further away in the heavy smoke, as the Hound dragged her away towards the gates of Winterfell.

***

She stood in front of the large looking glass. In the soft light of the candles, the twisted silver branches on her dress shimmered quite pleasantly. She moved from side to side, feeling the material rustle around her. It was far heavier than anything she had been used to wearing and she didn’t like the way the woolen material bulged around her waist and hips, instead of flowing effortlessly down her body or how the ornate sleeves made her shoulders seem larger than they were.

Still it was a beautifully made dress that must have taken a great deal of work to finish. Sansa Stark had made it seem effortless and for a moment, she tried to imagine herself that way. A young girl, sitting on a chair sawing, in the house with the red door, the wind blowing softly through the window spreading the scent of lemons around the room. Beautiful patterns of dragon wings would take shape under her diligent fingers and there, sitting next to her, would be her mother. She would guide her hand, complimenting her work from time to time.

Dany closed her eyes tightly, forcing her mind to conjure an image from the mist. _Long, flowing silver hair_ … _Mother had the hands of a true queen, Viserys had said. Delicate long fingers. She would caress my hair gently and sing to me._ It had been the only thing he mentioned about her and try as hard as she might, she was unable to force her mind to fill in the rest of the image.

She felt a tinge building up inside of her, growing large as a claw dragging across her chest and she shook her head. _If I look back, I’m lost._ She was Daenerys Targaryen, the mother of dragons, the blood of the dragon.

No matter how beautiful the dress was, she would not want to be a young, delicate girl like Sansa Stark. Remembering the dark shade of red her cheeks had turned when Dany had mentioned Tyrion, made her feel ashamed for embarrassing her. That had not been her intention but she could see now that her words had been too hasty.

It had been the guilt talking for every time that she closed her eyes and thought of her future, through the war with the dead, through the fight with the false queen Cersei, through it all Jon Snow was at her side. Fighting alongside her, standing next to her when she took her rightful place on the Iron Throne.

But she had never considered Sansa Stark in all of her plans. Perhaps having grown up without a real family, had left her ill equipped to consider such things. But she would have to now, if she wanted Jon and his family to be happy.

Sansa was a young woman, placed in a position of power she was not suited for. Her softness, her innocence and femininity, all placed her in great danger from the men that made up her Council. Her brother was her shield, her iron arm keeping the vultures at bay. Once Dany took him away, she would be left unprotected. She had had to learn the hard way to protect herself from the vying and prodding of ambitious men, but Sansa didn’t have to.

If she were to marry the Hand of the Queen, she would be able to unburden herself of these pressures. Tyrion had praised her for her resounding success at court and if Dany were to name her a handmaiden, she could remain in King’s Landing for as long as she wished. The thought made her smile and she imagined herself walking through the Red Keep gardens with her, laughing as true sisters would.

The knock on the door made her stomach flutter and her hands quickly ran down the skirts of her dress. “Come in,” she said, softly.

Jon walked in and her breath caught in her throat. He looked so handsome in his leather tunic. The brown brought out the richness in his dark eyes and she got lost looking over his features, longing to trace her fingers over the scar that crossed his right eye. It made him look fierce and strong, like the warrior he was. A hero.

 _Heroes do stupid things and then they die,_ she remembered saying. Jon Snow had died but he had also come back. Not even her sun and stars, strong and powerful as no man before him, had been able to do that.

“What do you think?” she said, stepping into the light.

He looked her over, in that guarded way of his and she could see a hint of regret hidden beneath his serious expression. “You look beautiful,” he said, almost breathless.

Her heart leaped at the compliment and at the reluctant restraint he was showing in keeping away from her.

“It’s your sister’s work you have to thank for that.”

He winced at the mention and his features hardened. Confused as to what had made him uncomfortable, she continued: “Is it Northern enough for the lords, do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace,” he said. “Missandei has informed me that I am to escort you to the feast tonight. Is that wise?”

His formal tone left her in no doubt as to the source of his discomfort. “I suppose that this cold display is due to you thinking that I forced you into coming here?”

She waited for a moment, hoping for an explanation but when none came, she went on. “You have been avoiding me for weeks, Jon. What choice did you leave me?”

“You must see that after what happened at the council, we can’t afford to be seen together. If my people find out what had been going on between us …”

Relief washed over her. For a moment, she had feared that it had been indifference that had kept him away. But it couldn’t have been. Not when every look he gave her was filled with torment and longing. Not when he seemed nailed to the spot, afraid that if he came closer to her, he would be unable to resist. “The reaction of your Northern Lords was unfortunate,” she said, coming closer to him and taking his hand, doing what he wouldn’t allow himself to do. “But we will win them over. Together.”

She put her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently, feeling the roughness of his beard and longing to have his full lips on her mouth. She wanted to tell him then. Tell him all her plans for them, for Sansa, for him. _I will be queen soon_ , she wanted to say. _I can make you the legitimate son of your father. You will never be called bastard again._

“Winning them over wouldn’t have been an issue if you hadn’t burned the Tarlys.”

His voice was filled with accusation and her loving confessions froze on her lips, unspoken. She let go of his hand, her skin burning.

“How could you do such a thing?” he asked.

She remembered the hot anger that had gripped her then, the avenging fire of the dragon burning through her veins. _It was just_ , she thought. _I gave them a choice_. “War is not a pleasant thing. You know that as well as I do. I refuse to apologize for fighting for what is mine.”

He winced again. A barely perceivable shift but it was there nonetheless. Perhaps she had been wrong about him after all. She had seen in him a will and strength to match her own but what she had in front of her was nothing but a cowering boy, afraid to stand up to his own vassals.

“You must make a choice, Jon Snow. I have marched my armies and my dragons to this cold, inhospitable place for you. I am the last Targaryen and I have abandoned the fight for the Iron Throne to save you and your people. Will you stand by me as I have stood by you? Or was I wrong to trust you?”

He was silent for a moment before bowing his head. “No, you were not wrong. If it’s your wish that we enter together …”

“My wish?” she scoffed. “Who do you think you are?” Didn’t he know how many men wished they were in his position? Daario Naharis had killed his own brothers in arms for a chance to serve her. Ser Jorah had fought greyscale itself to come back at her side. But he treated her as if she were nothing but a burden. “Save your courtesies. They don’t suit you. I am a queen, not a simpering maiden that needs to cling to a man’s arm.”

She turned around and headed for the door when he caught her hand.

“Daenerys, stop. Please,” he said.

Despite her anger, his soft voice still had the power to make her waver. He turned her gently towards him and she allowed it, feeling her body warm up when he put his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She looked up at him. His brow was creased with worry and his eyes pleaded with her. “It would be an honor to walk at your side.”

His words washed over her and she searched his eyes for confirmation. The warmth of his body inches away from hers, made her resolve crumble. She smiled faintly and touched his cheek again. “You have many admirable qualities, Jon Snow. But how you treat women isn’t one of them.”

She placed her hands on his chest, her fingers digging in just enough to feel his muscles through his tunic, and stood on her tiptoes, bringing her mouth over his. She wanted to see how far his regret would go. At first, his lips were still and unsure but she deepened the kiss until they opened and his arms wrapped up around her waist tightly.

As they walked into the feast, side by side, she could still taste him on her tongue. The sound of the music drumming in her ears, the laughter of men and the clinking of ale horns made her dizzy and in the distance, she could hear the bells ringing. Once … twice … three times.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that there are depictions of violence, death and sexual assualt in this chapter.

**Chapter 4**

The air was still smoky and charred as Sansa walked through what remained of the granary. The heat rose from the earth heavy and hot still, turning into steam.

 

Crows swooped in from the gaping holes in the roof down on the ground, where they gorged on the remnants of the crops that had been housed inside. The wooden structure creaked and cracked and pieces fell with a thud. The birds croaked and flapped their wings, the sound echoing all around her, turning her stomach inside out. 

 

Piles upon piles of grain sacks lay on top of each other, cloth fused together with blackened wheat, oats and barley, carbonized under the flame that had blazed all through the night. She bent down and picked a handful of the barley that had only been brought there two weeks past. Their honey color had turned black and rugged and as she closed her fist, they dissolved to ash in her hand.

 

“Can we salvage any of it?” she asked.

 

Maester Wolken walked closer to the burnt rows, ledger in hand. “We could try separating them and see if some of the sacks beneath were kept from the fire. But it’s not likely.”

 

“We tried to save as much as we could,” Pod said. “We really did.”

 

“No one is blaming you, Pod,” Brienne reassured him. “How many did you take out?”

 

“By the time we arrived, half of the granary was already on fire. People were fighting and …,” Pod’s voice cracked. “There was just me and Gendry and a few of the lads from the market … We kept dragging and dragging, until we couldn’t go in anymore. There’s about two hundred out there, I think.”

 

Sansa’s head spun and throbbed. Two hundred … There had been ten thousand sacks of wheat in the granary. Five thousand each of oats and barley. _How am I going to feed a hundred thousand men on two hundred sacks of grain?_ She had badgered, and fought and pushed all the houses to send their share in support of the armies and now she had lost it … more than an entire year’s worth of grain. She would have to wrestle more from the lords, if they had any. Force them to give up their winter provisions to feed an army of savages that had slaughtered their kin and raped their women.  She buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

 

“My lady …” Brienne said.

 

She looked at her soot covered palms and realized that she had probably smeared it all over her face. Brienne stood next to her, holding out a handkerchief, her brow furrowed with worry. She stood up and took it, beginning to twist it in her hands as the scale of the desolation sunk in. Above the rows, through the cracks and holes in the wooden walls, she saw a swarm of people descending, their faces twisted with rage. They screamed and clawed over each other, pulling and cheering as they flung a large, fat arm above their heads. A tortured voice wailed out above the cheers while the rag clad men kept pulling. _Hunger turns men into beasts,_ she thought. “What do we have in reserve at Winterfell, Maester Wolken?”

 

“Ten thousand bushels, my lady,” the old man said. “Six thousand of wheat, three thousand of oats and one thousand of barley.”

 

“Excluding the queen’s personal provisions, surely,” Brienne said.

 

“Ah, yes.” Maester Wolken started turning the pages, tracing the rows of numbers with his ink stained fingers. “There it is … With the queen’s provisions, we have ten thousand bushels and eight thousand sacks of grain in total.”

 

 “Are you sure that is all?” Sansa asked. She didn’t need to hear the answer. She knew it full well. Had been there when the queen’s men had dragged her poultry reserve into Winterfell.

 

“We need to get back to the keep,” she said. “We have to go over our treasury. There is food enough in the Vale and I’m sure my cousin will give us a fair price.”

 

She had hoped to stave off buying food for as long as possible. No one knew how long the war would last and winter could be here for years. But there was no helping it now.

 

As she headed for the door, she passed by Pod. The boy bowed to her, his solemn face etched with guilt. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” he said again, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “I wish we had gotten here sooner. If we had been faster …”

 

She grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed tightly. Dutiful and studious, Lady Brienne had called him. He would never be a great knight, she had said, but he has enough heart for an entire King’s Guard.

 

She smiled at him. “You were very brave, Pod,” she said. “Not many would have gone into a burning building, while a battle raged around them.” She didn’t let go of his hand until she saw her words sinking in and the worry ease from his features.

 

“Maester Wolken,” she instructed before heading for the door, “please make sure Podrick is taken care of. I fear soot may have gotten into his eyes. We can check the treasury after.”

 

As she walked outside, the cold wind hit her and she wrapped her cloak tightly around her. Winter had turned bitter and hard in the past few days and the storms were raging all through the night.

 

All around the granary, dead bodies laid on the frigid ground, half covered in blood soaked snow. Twisted, with eyes opened, half frozen. The townsfolk had brought oxen carts and one by one, the bodies were unceremoniously dragged off and thrown on top of each other. They were to be given to the flames, Jon had ordered. The earth beneath the snow was hard and frozen, making digging almost impossible and the dead were likely to raise when the Night King arrived, he had said.

 

It did not make it easier for the people that had kin among the frozen limbs. Next to one of the carts, a woman was wailing as a young girl was put in the cart. Two men were restraining her, her face twisted in agony as she screamed: “No! Not my Beth!”struggling against their grip. They were big men, strong soldiers from the keep but they could barely keep her away.

 

Her heart shrunk in her chest and her thoughts went out to her mother, the Lady Catelyn. Those who had escaped the Red Wedding still talked in hushed tones of the way she howled in pain as she saw her son being cut down in front of her.

 

“Leave her!” she said, her voice harsh and strong. She advanced towards them, forceful and grave as she had never thought she could be. “Let her go!” she ordered.

 

The men bowed their heads but did not release the woman. “My Lady, the king said …”

 

“I don’t care what he said! She has a right to mourn her child.”

 

She starred them down for a moment, keeping her face void of expression, steel hidden beneath flesh, as she had learned to do from Cersei Lannister. She had seen the queen doing it many times over, to her, to everyone else and still she doubted she would be able to command the same sort of obedience. And yet they bowed and released the screaming woman. Just as swiftly as the men in King’s Landing.

 

The woman stumbled on her feet and darted to the cart. She grabbed fistfuls of the little girl’s ragged cloak, dragging her down, into the snow. She collapsed on top of her and tightened her grip on the small body, as she began to rock back and forth.

 

Sansa’s vision blurred and she turned around. Brienne was standing beside her, an ever present shadow wherever she went. Ever since the night of the queen’s arrival, her steps fell in tandem to her own, unwilling to leave her alone. A part of her still resented her knight’s protection, an ever present reminder of her feebleness but she had resolved not to snap and push at the woman as she had done in the past. Brienne had sworn her sword, life and limb and that warranted respect.

 

“Brienne, help her take the girl home.”

 

“My lady, I cannot leave you alone here. It’s far too dangerous.”

 

“I will escort Lady Sansa.”

 

The melodic color of the voice announced Lord Varys’ presence even before he came into view. The spider that lurks in the shadows, Littlefinger had called him. Portly he may have been, but he always moved quickly and quietly. He came closer to them, a studied smile plastered on his face while his pointy shoes scooped the snow as he stepped, flinging it in all directions.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Brienne said, moving her sword hand securely over the hilt.

 

Sansa squeezed Brienne’s arm gently and smiled. “It’s all right. Please do as I bid.”

 

Her knight would have objected, no doubt, had she given her a chance but Sansa moved away before she could, joining Lord Varys.

 

As they walked towards Winterfell, the woman’s screams still echoed in her ears. It made it hard to concentrate or think and she needed to do both. “Has the queen asked for me?” she said.

 

“No. Although it was at her instruction I came,” he said, sighing. “She’s very concerned about what has happened. As you can imagine. She wanted to know if there was anything that could be done for the families.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Corpses littered the trail up to the gates, where the last of the fighting had been done. Some of the people from the town had tried to flee from the Dothraki and the flames. The horsemen had caught up with them and slain them beneath the walls.

 

Varys stopped in front of two of them. In the snow, they looked as if they were embracing. Stiff, dead arms wrapped up around each other, a curved, half-moon blade discarded next to them. The Dothraki had fallen on top of the Northerner, his long braid coiled on the man’s chest. Enemies frozen in place.

 

“The queen’s justice is swift, I assure you, my lady,” he finally said, unable to take his eyes off the grisly sight.

 

She might have even suspected him of caring if she didn’t know better. Varys was as responsible for the slaughter as his queen was. He had brought her to Westeros, with her army of savages and her dragons. He hid under a veneer of courtesy and elegance but he was as ruthless in his pursuit of the game as Littlefinger had been.

 

In King’s Landing, his every movement was studied, every inflection of his voice laced with meanings only he understood. He had never come to speak to her then, of course. She had been far too unimportant to warrant a visit from the spider.

 

Since he had been in Winterfell, he had rarely wandered outside of the castle, let alone to the town. Judging from the desperate way he clinged to his fur lined cloak and the reddish frost bitten tinge that had spread over his bold head, she guessed that he did not fare well in the cold weather. So it must have been something truly important to have compelled him into the frigid snows.

 

She doubted his queen had sent him. If that had been the purpose, she had been better served by Tyrion, not her master of whispers. No, he had come of his own accord. Ventured out in order to woo her. For what purpose, she did not know. But it did not matter. All she needed to do was be the same, tame little bird she had trained herself to be in the Red Keep. He would make his intentions clear sooner or later.

 

“You must forgive me for dwelling,” he said. “Even after all these years, sights like these still give me pause. Was the carnage similar when your brother took back Winterfell?”

 

Sansa bit her lip as she began to move again, forcing him to follow. She fiddled with the handkerchief in her hands, twisting it around her fingers. “I try not to think of it,” she said.

 

“Of course. One hears such grisly things. Flayed men, dead giants. A horrifying sight, to be sure. And then people embellish even more, always thirsty for more blood. Rumors of Ramsay Bolton being eaten by his own dogs …,” Varys said, looking at her, a sly smile barely hidden beneath a tremble. “One shudders at the thought.”

 

She wondered what the purpose of his prodding was. Perhaps he was merely boasting that he knew the truth of what had transpired. But word of the Boltons defeat had traveled to Dorne and back, complete with all manner of details, one more horrifying than the last. Many had called Ramsay’s death an unfortunate accident. Had Lord Varys guessed that it had been she who had set the dogs on him? But if he had, why would he care?

 

“He was a vile man,” he said, after a time. “And vile men often meet unspeakable ends. Others simply disappear …”

 

That sent a jolt through her. He had noticed Littlefinger’s absence, as she suspected he would eventually. But did he know the part she had played in his demise? Or Arya’s? His eyes were calm and unassuming and yet they hid countless secrets. Secrets he very much enjoyed holding over people’s heads.

 

She tried to steady her nerves and looked at him, confused. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lord … I’m afraid you are better at riddles than I.” She gave him a shy smile and dropped her eyes.

 

“Riddles and plots … they fascinate me,” he said. “I have to confess that you were, at one time, the subject of one of my plots, my lady.”

 

“Was I?”

 

“I envisioned you at High Garden, surrounded by a sea of roses. But I’m afraid I was thwarted on this by a mutual friend.”

 

Sansa had to bite the inside of her cheek. She had long suspected that her intended betrothal to Loras Tyrell had been ruined by Littlefinger’s machinations. One of his many cruel games to catch her in his grasp and, more importantly, to punish her for refusing to leave with him. But she had willfully blinded herself to Margaery and Loras’ part in all of it. They had been kind to her, when she so desperately needed friends. But they were like all roses: beautiful and fragrant, but hiding thorns beneath. Varys had sold the Tyrells the key to the North, just as assuredly as Littlefinger had sold it to the Boltons.

 

“But perhaps he knew better than I. My intention was to spare you from the lion’s grasp but the marriage between you and my lord Tyrion proved less burdensome than some feared.”

 

Sansa walked through the gates of Winterfell in a daze, her stomach twisting in knots. She remembered Tyrion’s awkward visit to her rooms, announcing they would be married. She saw herself staring into the distance as Littlefinger’s ship sailed away, leaving her stranded on the cusp of a marriage that shamed and terrified her. “Lord Tyrion was always very kind to me.”

 

“Yes,” Lord Varys said, his voice the rattling of a snake, grating against her ear. “Such a pity that your acquaintance was cut short. But perhaps it can be rekindled, now that we are all here. I know that would certainly please my good friend … As well as the queen.”

 

It had taken the better part of a rather long walk but, at last, Lord Varys had arrived at his point. Perhaps the queen had sent him after all.

 

She had been a child when she was pushed into the Imp’s bed. Frightened, unsure, latching onto anyone that showed her even a small bit of kindness. A fool that left herself at the mercy of others, hoping the world would be kind and spare her.

 

But the world had never shown her much kindness since the day her lord father had lost his head. There were no gentle people willing to help her. No heroes coming to save her. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

 

***

Theon sat on the muddy steps next to the kitchens, starring at the ground, the wetness sweeping through his cloak and breeches down to his flesh and yet he did not feel the cold. From time to time, the voices of his men, muffled and bawdy reached him as they spoke loudly, stuffing their faces with as much food as they could. _Let them feast_ , he thought. _They’ve had bellies empty with hunger for far too long._

 

The warm and inviting smells filled his nostrils and his stomach twisted sharply but he could not bring himself to go in. The cook had given them a rich, thick broth of chicken and potatoes and warm, crusty bread. They always had it at Winterfell, as far back as he could remember. Gage would serve it to them, in heavy, wooden bowls whenever they’d return from a hunt and the faint memory of the sweet and savory taste lingered on his tongue.

 

Ramsay Bolton had skinned Gage and his daughter, Turnip, soon after he had come to Winterfell, saying that the old man’s food was not to his liking. Theon wondered dimly if the broth served now tasted the same as he remembered.

 

Memories were a dangerous thing.. Within these walls, he had buried himself, forgotten his name, hid away in the shadows and everywhere he turned his gaze now, eyes starred back at him.

 

It was Yara’s eyes that came to him the most. Not as they had been, an unruly light always glimmering in them. No, it was the dead eyes that haunted him, black pools, empty and soulless, stretching from the grave. _Don’t die so far from the sea_ , she had told him.

 

His sweet sister … She was dead now, rotting away, still locked in Silence’s embrace. He wanted to believe in the Gods. Wanted to imagine her feasting at the side of the Drowned God but he couldn’t. All he could see was her flesh rotting, moss and fungus covering her pretty face, as she floated white and still in the murky depths.

 

“Theon?”

 

He lifted his head and was met with clear, blue eyes. Alive and warm, like the sea during a summer’s day. _So much like Robb’s_ , he thought. He had called him brother once. But that was before … before the sharp steely blue of the torment that had been unleashed on him the moment he had betrayed his one true friend. _Reek_ , he heard whispered. _Welcome back, Reek._

 

He shook his head, trying to chase it away. _My name is Theon_ , he thought. He knew his name now. Ramsay could not trick him anymore.

 

“Sansa,” he said, his mouth dry. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I came looking for you.”

 

She dropped down, next to him and the sight left him trembling. Sansa had always been the most beautiful girl he had ever known but it was her kind smile Theon liked the most now. It seemed to warm the very air around him. She was peaceful, her face clear. Not reddened as it had been then or twisted in agony. There were no ugly purple gashes, no desperate cracks to her voice.

 

And yet, he could not bare to look at her for too long. The more he looked, the more he remembered those terrible nights … when he watched … when she screamed. No! He must not think of it. She would not like it.

 

“Let’s go to the solar,” she said. “We can have food brought up.”

 

He shook his head. “I don’t think Jon would like that.”

 

“He told me you met at Dragonstone. That you made peace.”

 

“He forgave me, which was more than I deserved. But he won’t like me going in there. Not after what I’ve done. And neither will Arya.”

 

“Arya? What does she have to do with it?”

 

“She tried to kill me.” He remembered her rushing towards him, dagger in hand. She hated him, he saw it plainly. “During the battle in town, she came at me.”

 

“Don’t be frightened,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “I won’t let either of them hurt you.”

 

He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t bother. Death didn’t frighten him anymore. Only those who had not felt pain could still fear it. Death meant an end … and sometimes endings were good. But she never gave him a chance to say it. She pulled him to his feet, before he even thought of resisting. Gently, she guided him from the kitchens towards the court yard.

 

The Winterfell courtyard had always been the heart of the Great Keep. It’s where the blacksmith’s apprentices would test the metal, clashing and clinging at swords. People would walk in and out, on errands or chores. Boys would practice their archery and spar, under Ser Rodrik’s careful eye.

 

He could still hear the echoes of their laughter. But that’s all it was … an echo … long gone, faint and distant. Now the courtyard had fallen strangely silent, like the terrifying quiet before a great storm.

 

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

 

“The queen summoned them. The lords are already assembling in the Great Hall.”

 

“The queen?” She had said it so simply, as if it was the way things were meant to be. “So it’s true then? Jon really did bend the knee?”

 

She stopped for a moment to look at him. Her eyes scrutinized him in a strange way before saying: “You had reason to doubt it?”

 

He hesitated. In truth, there was no reason. Not really … Only that last conversation they had … _It might seem that way, he had said. But I assure you, it_ _’s not_ … “No. I … I was confused. Forgive me.”

 

Her face relaxed and she gave him another smile. “I’m so glad you are here, Theon. When we parted, I was afraid that …”

 

Her voice cracked and he nodded quickly. It was not easy to talk of that. “I know …”

 

She was quiet for a moment as the shadows crawled away from them. “The queen will want to talk with you,” she said, after a while. “She asked about her ships.”

 

“Her ships? Not about my sister?”

 

Sansa bit her lip. “I’m sure she’ll want to …”

 

“She’s dead!” Theon croaked, his voice strangled and raspy. “She cut her wrists after Euron sent his mute men down to rape her.” Despite the horror plainly painted on her face, he couldn’t stop the words from bubbling to the surface. It all came rushing out, muddled and angry. “She gave me five ships to fight off two hundred. Yara bent the knee to her, promised her the Iron Islands. While she stayed on Dragonstone, Yara took us all to sea to fight Cersei Lannister for her. Your queen’s ships are gone. Scattered and burnt, just like her men.”

 

 “She’s your queen too, Theon.”

 

He shook his head, adamantly. “No. My queen is dead,” he said. “I didn’t come here for her. I came for you and Jon. You have to warn him!”

 

“Warn him about what?”

 

“The dragon queen’s promises are false. When she finds out …She’ll leave you all to die just as ...”

 

She grabbed his arm then, in a panic that stopped him in his tracks. “You mustn’t speak this way! Someone might hear.”

 

He laughed bitterly at that. “Let them hear,” he said, his voice quitter despite his defiance. “What will she do to me? Beat me? Cut me? Burn me? There’s nothing she can do that hasn’t been done a hundred times over.”

 

Her chin wobbled, yet she did not cry. He reached out for her hand even though he feared she would pull away. When she didn’t, it made him bolder. “I’m alone now. My sister’s gone. She was the only person who still cared about me …”

 

 “She’s not the only one,” she whispered. “I care about you.”

 

He dropped his gaze, shaking his head. She was just being kind, he knew. But the words still filled him with hope.   _I care about you … I care … I care …_ It kept repeating on and on.

He had saved her. It was the one thing he had ever done right. And now he could help her again and perhaps then she wouldn’t just be kind. Perhaps she could truly care for him, despite all that he had done.

 

***

“They … they came right after supper. Mother and father were sittin’ around the fire and I wen’ outside to feed the pigs.”

The young girl stood in front of her, keeping her head bowed. Her voice cracked and her eyes darted up at her every so often. Large black eyes, filled with tears. Her hair was mussed and dirty, her skin and dress covered in mud and blood.

She trembled all the while from head to toe and Daenerys swallowed back the lump that had formed in her throat. She gripped the arms of the chair tightly, as she forced herself to listen.   _Mother of dragons … Daughter of death …_

“I don’t ‘now where the’ cam’ from, m’lady.”

“You are addressing the queen,” Missandei interrupted, her voice not unkind. “The proper title is Your Grace …”

The girl looked at her, in terror then. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace …”

“Go on, girl,” she said, attempting to keep her voice even, as her heart beat out of her chest.

“They grabbed me and pushed me to the ground. I didn’ mean to scream bu’ it just cam’ out. My father heard it most like and he ran out of the house. One of the copper men threw him down and ran his sword through him and then … then he wen’ inside and dragged my mother out by the hair. And then …” Her cheeks flushed red. “When the’ were done with us, one of them slit my mother’s throat. By then, there were men fightin’ all around and the smoke from the granary made it hard to see. So I ran and hid in the pig sty.”

She looked around, at all the men and women gathered in the hall. No one spoke or moved. They just kept starring at her. “That’s all,” she said, apologetically. “That’s all I ‘now.”

Daenerys tried to smile at her but the gesture did not sit comfortably. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ve heard enough. You may go.”

The girl stood in place, unsure what to do. Thankfully, Lady Sansa’s handmaiden stirred and came forth from the back, taking the little girl by the hand and guiding her out of the room. Daenerys remembered the woman and her baby. She would probably know best how to sooth the young child.

“Bring them in,” she commanded Ser Jorah who had been standing near the entrance awaiting her order.

Her knight bowed his head and opened the door. Her bloodrider, Qhono, came forth. Together with some of this men, he escorted the twenty Dothraki towards the middle of the room. Their hands had been tied with rope but were otherwise unharmed. A few scratches and bruises but none too serious. It seemed the people of Winter Town had not proven much of a threat to her Dothraki.

All the Northern Lords and their retinue eyed the men with barely contained anger. Even Jon, standing at her side, stiffened. She looked up at him and found that he was glaring at the men, his hand over the scab of his sword. She was sure that if she had allowed it, he would have pounced on them like a wolf tearing at limb and flesh until he had consumed them entirely. _Have no fear, my brave warrior_ , she wanted to say. _I will serve them justice._

 “Do you have anything to say to defend yourselves?” she asked in Dothraki.

“The queen asked if the men had anything to say,” Missandei translated.

“We took the lambs that belong to the Khalasar,” one of the old riders replied. “Killed the lamb men and mounted their women. As was our right.”

“These lambs belong to me,” she said. “I didn’t not give you permission to take them.”

The man spit on the ground, defiantly. “A khal who doesn’t share the spoils with the Khalasar is no khal!”

She could feel the fire raising inside of her and her blood boiled with righteous anger as Qhono hit the man in the stomach and he fell to his knees. She felt as if she herself had delivered the blow, just as her sun and stars would have done.

“They were drunk and thought that the queen had gone to war with the North,” she heard Missandei’s voice dimly.

She stood up, shouting so all the Dothraki men could hear. “I claim all these lamb men for myself,” she said. “They are mine and you will not take them for yourselves.”

Even on his knees, her rider grunted and hissed… She could not remember his name and for a moment she wondered if she had ever known it. “We followed you on the wooden horses, across the black salt sea. We killed your enemies in the iron suits. Next, you’ll take us to fight dead men. But you give us nothing in return.”

“I will give you something in return,” she said. “I will give you what I gave the khals of the Dosh Khaleen.  Fire and blood.”

The man gasped at that as did the rest of them. Their fear stirred something in her. Something dark and unnerving. Despite it all, she felt strong and triumphant. All discomfort had left her as she starred down the men. Her heart beat soundly now, strong and steady, as the breath of the dragon. The girl’s face danced around before her, spurring her on. She was Mhysa. The Breaker of Chains. The strong arm of all little girls that had ever been hurt or taken against their will.

“Has your bird forgotten her lines?”

The voice brought her back. It was mocking and the words cruel. It had been that Northerner, with the long face and hollow eyes that had attacked her at the Council. He stood to the side and looked at her with hatred in his eyes.

It was then that she realized Missandei had not spoken. She looked at her and her handmaiden bowed her head apologetically. She had been unable to translate the words without giving offence to the lords.

It did not matter. The old Northerner, with his haggard beard and his unkempt cloak, did not understand. Judging from the faces she saw around the room, none of them did. But she would show them. _They will come to see you for what you are,_ she remembered. _._

“Your people will have justice, ser,” she said to the man, spitting out the words before turning to Qhono and ordering him in Dothraki: “Take them outside!”

Qhono hesitated for a moment before dropping to one knee. “Khaleesi,” he said, his head bowed. “These men are not the men in iron suits or lambs. They are bloodriders of the Dothraki, braided and bled in battle. Let me pick twenty of my riders to fight them. Let them stand like men and let them die like men.”

“No,” she said. She had promised them fire and blood. What kind of queen would she be if she did not keep her word?

“But, Khaleesi …”

“You forget yourself, Qhono. You do not tell your khal what to do with her riders,” she said. “Take them outside!”

Qhono swallowed and finally nodded. He stood up and instructed his men to push the prisoners outside. Once they were gone, she came round the table and walked purposefully towards the door, followed closely by her retinue, as the Northern lords watched her pass by. She held her chin high and her face implacable. _Let them see what the Queen’s justice looks like._

“You!” she heard that awful man again. “You’ve done this.”

She turned to face him but it was not her he was talking to. It was Jon.

“You brought her here with her dragons and her savages to butcher us and rape our women. I curse the day we ever named you king!”

Even as his entire body tensed and he clenched his fists, Jon did not respond. He dropped his head, as if resigned. Why did he turn himself meek in front of his own vassls instead of putting the man in his place?

“That is enough!” she said. “You will not speak to my Warden that way!”

Her words had no effect. The man didn’t even look at her. He just scoffed and spit on the ground. “Her WardenShe’s turned you into her pet. We named you king and you bent your knee. Bastard!”

“I said that’s enough!” she shouted, the rage consuming her. “Take this one outside with the rest!”

Grey Worm and Ser Jorah moved swiftly to grab hold of the man but as they touched him, all Daenerys could hear was the clanking of swords. She looked around and realized that all the men left in the room had drawn their steel.

When Ser Jorah placed a dagger to the man’s neck, they moved closer, their faces hard as stone. Madmen, all of them.

“Was this your plan all along, Lord Snow?” he asked, still ignoring her. “Is this what your uncle died for? A sniveling coward who would betray his own people?”

“You best be quiet now, Robett,” Jorah said.

“You shamed yourself, your house and your father. You have no voice here, Jorah Mormont.”

“I have a blade to your neck,” her knight hissed. “Tell the men to stand down or I will cut you down right here.”

“Put away your blade!” Jon’s strong voice silenced the room.

His face was seething with rage, his mouth twisted in disgust but when he turned to her, his expression softened, his words becoming less hard. “Your Grace, Lord Glover spoke out of turn. As your Warden, I ask you to please allow me to deal with him personally.”

“In light of what happened, perhaps it would be best to leave matters of the North to the North, your Grace,” Tyrion interjected.

She could feel her cheeks burn red as she looked back at the man and saw him starring at her defiantly. But as the glimmer of the swords turned bright in the light of the torches and the labored breaths of men all around her grew more stifling she was left with no option but to say: “Very well. Let him go.”

Jon turned to his men and instructed them to take the man to the cells. She could still hear mutters of disapproval but the swords were finally drawn back into their scabs and people began to quietly walk out of the Great Hall.

She stood there and waited until everyone had left, and only her and Jon remained. As he walked passed her, she stopped him.

“Jon Snow,” she said. “Don’t let my fondness for you make you forget your place. Never question my decisions again.”

***

Arya crossed the bridge quickly. Beneath her, the Winterfell courtyard stretched unperturbed. There was no one to see her and she could hear the crunching of snow beneath her feet as she made her crossing. Every now and then, she would hit a patch of ice and her foot would slip slightly but she barely noticed.

There was no one outside the Great Keep but still she hurried. She had kept away from the dragon queen’s council, fearing that some of the townsfolk called to speak might recognize her. She should have steered clear of the whole battle, she knew, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. What was the point of having learned how to fight, at being better at it than most people, if she couldn’t use it?

Her head still hurt and she touched the back of her skull. A lump had formed there, tender to the touch, from when the Hound had hit her. It had always been his favorite way of subduing her and the memory made her angry still. She was no longer Ary or his hostage. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and he had no right to do that to her.

It had been a good thing that he had made himself scarce before she came to or she would have gutted him right there. But it didn’t matter. There were only two things the Hound loved most in life: weapons and drink. And Arya knew where he could find both.

The armory wing loomed in front of her and she made her way through the stone passage way at the end of the bridge. The iron doors were opened and Arya entered the large space, searching for the familiar sound of steel clanking and people talking over each other.

But the whole wing was silent.  It was a dark and dry sort of place, the smell of burnt iron and ale lingering heavy in the air. Since she  had come back to Winterfell, the armory had always been packed with knights and squires alike, testing their weapons, trying on armor or just sitting around, trying their hand at hazard while drinking themselves into a stupor.

But that was not the case today. All the swords hung neatly on the stone walls, above countless barrels of pitch.  Everywhere Arya turned, armored knights of steel and leather starred back at her through empty visors.

Mostly there were arrows. Stacks and stacks of it, all of them fashioned with dragonglass, the material that Jon had brought back from Dragonstone. It was their only defense against the army of the dead, aside from valyrian steel and fire.   

As she got closer to the forge at the center of the room, she heard the rhythmic sound of stones hitting against one another. Again and again, hits were followed by the sound of something splintering and crushing to the floor.

The forge would usually be blazing, the fires kept high and wild to forge steel. It would make the air unbearably hot at times as well as spread light throughout the rest of the armory. But it was not in use today. There were torches though, but far too few to really count.

What little light there was came from the small windows high up on the walls and she found Gendry sitting beneath one of them, a stack of arrow heads at his feet.

He was holding a large piece of muddy brown stone pressed up against his calf. He hit it near the edge with a small, round river rock and a flat piece of dark veined dragonglass splintered in his hand. He ran his fingers over the surface before picking up a rounded piece of dear antler and starting to his the edges again. Small sharp pieces flew everywhere and she could see that some had cut into the flesh of his fingers.

There was blood but he didn’t seem to notice. His brow was arched in concentration but the rest of his face was relaxed, completely oblivious to everything around him.

“Where is everyone?” she said.

His hands stopped working but he barely spared her a glance. “Don’t know, m’lady. In the Great Hall, most likely.”

She could see him clenching his jaw, a poorly concealed gesture under the awkward mask of indifference. _What does he have to be angry about?_ _If anyone should be angry, it should be me._ He had left her after all.

“Do you know where the Hound is?” she asked, folding her arms and starring him down. “I need to … talk to him.”

“No idea, m’lady.”

She rolled her eyes and came closer to him. “You’re doing it all wrong, you know. You’re supposed to stand up and bow. You’re also supposed to be more helpful.”

He sighed and continued to hit his stupid rock. “I suppose you’d know best, m’…”

“You call me m’lady one more time and I’ll smack you over the head.”

His eyes darted up at her and she smirked. _Made you look_ , she thought. Made him angry too, she realized.

“What else should I call you?”

“You did just fine with Arya, as you remember full well.”

He shrugged. “That was before …”

“Before what?”

“Before you were the lady of the house. Before your brother broke his promise to me.”

“What in seven hells are you on about? Jon wouldn’t do that.”

He stood up and hit the stool with the back of his leg. “No? So why am I here covered in soot from head to toe then? Why can’t I eat in the Great Keep, with all you fine ladies and lords?”

Gendry had always had a temper. His face would always redden when he was angry, his eyes would shot blazes and he would get the world’s most infuriated expression. It never lasted long though. His face would become soft as putty again, just as it did now. “I thought he’d treat me as a friend,” he said. “It was all fine and good when he needed me to go beyond the wall with him and almost get myself killed. But now that he’s back in Winterfell, he turns his nose at me just like everyone else.”

Arya smacked him over the head so fast that it left him confused and he lost his footing. He shook his head quickly and looked at her as if she had grown another head. “What was that for?”

“For being an idiot,” she said. “Jon is trying to protect you, you dolt!”

“Why would I need to be protected?” He stood up straight as if to show that his height and muscles were enough to keep him safe.

“Did you forget who Daenerys Targaryen is? The daughter of the mad king your father killed? What do you think would happen to you if she found out that you’re Robert Baratheon’s last living son?”

He blinked quickly, as if the thought had never occurred to him. He was so thick at times. He had beautiful eyes, though. Sharp and icy blue and honest. She had always trusted those eyes, even when she had given up trying to trust anyone.

“I didn’t think about that,” he said. But no sooner as the realization dawned on him, that it was gone again. “She’s a good person, though. She wouldn’t …”

She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you learn your lesson with the Red Woman? Just because she’s pretty, doesn’t mean she won’t kill you.”

He huffed and turned around, embarrassed, most like. He picked up the stool and sat down again, taking the dragonglass in hand. “It’s not like that. She came beyond the wall. Saved us from the white walkers.”

Arya sighed and shook her head. Why were men so stupid? She dragged another stool closer to him and sat down as well. “She didn’t fly on her dragon to save you, Gendry. She came for …”

“For what?” he said.

_He really doesn’t know_. She thought it strange that he hadn’t notice. But no one had seemed to pick up on it, aside from her and Sansa. The way the dragon queen followed her brother with those strange and hungry violet eyes. The way her hand just happened to brush against his every time she was near him. It was plain to see but apparently men didn’t pay much attention to such things. Just as good, she supposed. It wouldn’t do her brother any favors if people figured out that he was fucking the dragon queen.

“Never mind … What did the Red Woman do to you anyway?” she said, changing the subject. She kept her voice light but her heart beat faster and an old dull anger washed over her as she remembered him being tied up and put on that cart as if he was a sack of potatoes.

He dropped his eyes and continued picking at his rock, with a sharp deer antler this time, making small dents into the edges of the arrowhead. “It doesn’t matter …”

“How did you get away from her?”

“Ser Davos helped me. He put me on a boat off the shore of Dragonstone and I rowed back to King’s Landing.”

“You rowed all the way from Dragonstone to King’s Landing?” she repeated incredulously and saw him nod. _That would explain the muscles_ , she thought looking down at his arms. She could see them clenching through his shirt every time he pushed the antler down and she flushed at the thought.

What was wrong with her? Those were the thoughts of silly girls with knights and songs on their minds. _That’s not me_ , she thought, looking away.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I went to Braavos … I had a friend there.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be the same friend that killed all those people for you at Harrenhall?”

She looked at him surprised. He smiled a little, just enough to show her he already knew the answer. “How did you …?”

Gendry shrugged. “I’m not an idiot.”

Apparently not, although his cleverness had the habit of coming and going at the most inconvenient times. “No one can know,” she said.

“They won’t find out from me.”

Arya hoped it was true. But before she could press the issue, a loud screech stopped them both in their tracks. They instinctively looked up at the window, just in time to see the shadow of a large wing wipe across the wall. _Dragons_ , Arya thought.

She darted for the door and Gendry followed close behind her. They made their way to the bridge just in time to watch the entire procession of people exiting Winterfell. Outside the gates, people gathered around a made shift podium. Northern lords and townsfolk, Dothraki and Unsullied … all huddled together behind the wooden structure.

High above, the black dragon, the biggest of them all, Drogon, circled around. _He’s hungry_ , she thought as she listened to his long screeching song. There was always a heady mix of excitement and dread whenever the dragons flew above the keep. She remembered being a little girl and reading stories of Visenya and her dragon, Vhagar. In her mind’s eye, the dragons were elegant and smooth, the flapping of their wings like a cooling breeze on a hot summer’s day. But the reality was very different. They were far bigger than she had imagined, their bodies covered in scales with huge sharp talons and jagged black teeth. They were the monsters Old Nan would conjure up for Bran when he was little.

A group of chained Dothraki were dragged through the crowed and made to stand on the opposite side. _The wrong side_ , Arya thought.  Even in the distance she could see some of them shivering and cowering, afraid to look up but unable to stop themselves. _You weren’t so scared when you were raping little girls, were you?_ she thought.

A queer sense of anticipation bloomed inside of her, as the dragon queen made her to the podium. She was surrounded by her people. All of them walked behind her, determined and strong. All except Jon. He had stopped right as Daenerys Targaryen climbed the steps and remained there. _He hates this_ , she thought. She could see it in his slumped shoulders, in the way his head hung down and how he crossed his arms to stop himself from trembling.

As soon as the queen took her position, the dragon shot down straight as an arrow. People scrambled left and right, out of his way. He landed with a thud on the ground in front of the cowering Dothraki and let out a loud, ferocious roar that made them back away.

Then the queen began to speak. Arya couldn’t make out what she was saying, even as her handmaiden translated but it did not matter. Everyone knew what was to follow.

The moment she stopped, the dragon opened its mouth. Out spewed black and red fire that in an instant engulfed the prisoners. Then the screaming began. There were grunts at first but then they grew louder and louder. She could not say how long they went on for. When one would die down, another would take its place, as flaming bodies clamored on top of each other, withered in the flames, in a sort of ugly dance that kept going on and on as sickly sweet fumes rose high above, into the air. It was then that Arya realized that burning flesh was the foulest odor she had ever smelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you all so much for your continued support!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sooooo sorry for the long wait. November is really a busy time for me and I've really struggled to get this chapter finished sooner but I just didn't manage it. I hope you still find it worth the wait, though!

**Chapter 5**

The flock of ravens swooped down through the cold, winter air. All at once they twisted and turned, crowing and flapping their wings as they left Winterfell behind. A thousand eyes and one … and all were his.

Below, the weirwood tree rustled and cracked its ancient white skin as his flock passed by. He fought the desire to submerge himself into its roots and stem. He had to go on, move North. Always North …

Down the stream of the White Knife they went, as he jumped from one raven to the other, the smells of rotten fish beneath the icy surface of the river invading his senses. But he did not let his birds go down and gorge themselves on the easy prey. There was no time.

The wind howled and blew ever more viciously. Ice formed on his black feathers and he grew tired, the flapping of the wings slowing down with each breath. His beady eyes looked down, searching for a new warm body to take him further.

Soon he found a wolf running over the snow filled ground. He was but a pup, thin and alone, lost to his pack as he frantically tried to make his way back to them.

In an instant, he pushed himself forward, leaving his flock behind and the ground rushed up to meet him. He felt the familiar empty gasp of his insides before his legs were firmly planted on the ground, covered in white fur. The cold did not bother him as much now and he stretched himself inside the white wolf, giving a long howl that came out shaking and hesitant. Nimble and strong the wolf was, despite his age and he was surprised when the creature tried to fight him, attempting to claw himself back to the surface, pushing him out. He was but an animal, though, and soon enough he was subdued.

He ploughed forward, across the plains, feeling the snow against his thick winter furs, as the stubby and uneven Lonely Hills loomed before him. The air was filled with new and exciting smells: fresh, warm meat, blood oozing out onto the ground. And further than that, faint and distant, the smell of the dead. Sounds of men and wights combined in his ears, making his skin tingle and his mouth water.

It was a hunger, deeper than that of food. His journey had been so long he could barely remember where he had started: at the Wall perhaps? When he had passed through its cold, black gates spurred on by dreams that never left him? No, it hadn’t been then. It had happened long before that. As far as he could remember, the hunger had been in him and nothing had truly satisfied it. Not until he found his purpose.

Night fell and the moon rose high, a sliver of pale light upon the black and redden sky. The white wolf was panting, his legs trembling under him. He had driven it hard across the steep hills. Soon it would be dead.

He heard the low hoots of a nearby owl and his sharp eyes searched the horizon until they found it, perched up on the high branches of a tall pine tree. In an instant, he had flown away, his grey wings stretching as the wolf collapsed on the ground.

The owl took him further, darting through the night. Her eyes could see better than even the ravens, especially in the dark.

Down below, two riders were reaching the Last River. They dismounted quickly and dragged their horses through the icy waters as the dead chased after them. A flaming sword lit their way through the dark and they jumped into the river almost eagerly, leaving the rotting corpses stranded on the shore. He could see their flailing arms rushing against the current and sense the frantic beating of their hearts, the cold daze in their eyes.

As he advanced, below him, the ruins of what had been the Last Hearth, the seat of the mighty Umbers of the North, lay in ruins. Smoke rose high and wide and glimmers of half burnt ambers still flickered. It was a cold and strange kind of fire, speckles of bluish, fiery ice sprinkled all over its courtyard and gaping towers. The walls had crumbled into dust and even now stony parts would rumble and cave to the ground with a thud.

The log-style house at the center was all but gone, only the front wall with its huge iron doors remained standing, alongside a portion of the eastern wall. Through its open ruins, the dead stirred and wandered sluggishly, picking up discarded swords or pikes. There was only one Wight with them, sitting in mockery on the great oak seat of Great Jon Umber. His high pitched shrikes, cold as the crackling of ice, spurred the soldiers on.

As he flew past, the Wight must have sensed him as his inhumanly blue eyes darted up to meet his own. His pale white face twisted in wrinkles like flowery icy streaks over smooth surface and he shrieked again. This time all his dead looked up and watched as the owl flew past.

In the distance, lay the expanse of the Bay of Seals, troubled waters stirred up in a frenzy of huge waves and foam by the howling gale. Its darkened shore was littered with half sunken boats and ships, all that remained of a rather feeble fleet. Even in the pale moonlight, he saw floating corpses drifting aimlessly, pulled by the currents and crushed against the rocks.

The sounds of battle drew closer with each flap of the wings. Through the thick forest, he saw the dead rushing, hungry empty mouths growling and moaning. A sea of rotting flesh and cold blue eyes all heading in one direction. Above the thick canopy, Karhold rose high on its rocky cliffs, two great keeps connected by a narrow stone and wooden bridge. It had always been a mean castle, strong and fierce, the sentinel risen from amidst the Grey Cliffs. But it would not last forever.

The wind howled and the snow lashed in all directions, sharp and grainy. From the ramparts, men hurled barrels of pitch on the wights below. The dead were clamoring on the bridge, climbing on the walls with bare darkened claws. Shouting of commands mingled with the moans of the wounded and the screams of those that were dragged over the walls by dead hands.

And above it all, the crackling of icy voices that stirred the lifeless bodies onward, until they were pulling on each other on the ever increasingly crowded passageway. It cracked and rumbled under the heavy weight and, in their haste to reach the walls, wights were pushing on each other until bodies fell over, crushing to the ground below, only to rise to continue their assault.

From one tower and then the other, fiery arrows lifted into the sky. A thousand golden stars that descended quickly on the bridge below. The pitch caught fire almost instantly spreading through the tightly packed rows of wight soldiers. They gave out ear piercing screeches as they twisted and shriveled in the flames. The stones beneath their feet gave way and crumbled. Only a little at first but the cracks widened and the center of the bridge fell through taking the flaming foot soldiers with them.

He wondered how long that bridge had stood for. Five hundred years? Perhaps more. It had fallen now, never to rise again. The men on top of the ramparts cheered in relief but it would not make a difference. The dead were not like their bridge. The ones that had not been touched by the fire stood up, mangled and torn from beneath the stones, at their masters’ command, and marched back towards the walls.

From the forest, many followed. Not just dead men, but giants as well and mammoths, thumping their huge skeletal feet, making the ground shake beneath them. From atop the walls, the men kept raining down fire on them.

In the distance he felt the dragon stirring and he flew towards his beckoning as fast as his owl wings could carry him. On the edges of the forest he found it, blue smoke coming out of his huge maws, through blackened, jagged teeth. It took flight to meet him, his wings spanning large, rustling the feeble trees beneath. The huge holes in the webbing should have made flight impossible but still he rose, carrying the Night King high to greet the speck of grey feathers.

 _Hello, brother_ , he said although he made no sound. _Go to them. They have need of you._

The King looked at him through cold, winter eyes. Icicles adorned his head, formed in the shape of a glorious crown. His mouth twisted and cracks crisscrossed his face. He could hear the crackling icy words in his ears. _No, leave the castle for now. Soon the dragons will be here. We need them._

With a nod, the King drove his dragon higher, turning from the castle and towards the South. The owl watched through large yellow eyes as the monstrous creature danced through the air, moving ever further away. He sighed deeply, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He slipped through his feathery skin and fell down and down … and further still until he found himself back into the crippled body, sitting in the wheelchair. The crackling of the Winterfell fire warmed him and he exhaled in relief.

There, in the darkness, the broken boy was still hiding away in his secret place, watching him with fearful, angry eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Do not worry, Bran. It’s only for a short while. When I am done, I will give it back.”

***

Jon kept his eyes firmly shut, even as the faint morning light peered around the edges. For moons after the Red Woman had brought him back, he had dreaded the darkness and everything that followed … the hunt, the taste of warm blood in his mouth, the assault of smells and sounds foreign to human senses. He feared that somehow it would drown him and he would never awaken again.

Now, he had come to crave it. Oblivion brought with it rest, an end to the lies. He was more himself there than he could ever be when he was awake. The dark brought freedom and the warmth of hands he craved the touch of. He reveled in it, Gods help him.

The safety of guilt had abandoned him long ago. There, at least, he was at peace, certain of who he was and what he wanted. He knew it couldn’t last long, it never did and he wondered how much longer he would have to drag himself back. An overwhelming feeling of desperation caught in his throat as he tore himself away.

As he slowly opened his eyes, his senses began to return to him. The whole right side of his body burned and seared. She was coiled around him, her arm snaked around his waist, her hair sprawled across his chest, sending sharp stings through his skin.

He tried to inhale but, as he drew breath, he felt his mouth water and his stomach turn, ready to retch. All he could smell was burnt flesh and all he could taste was the smoke rising from the bodies that still withered in the flames, dancing before his eyes, their screams filling his ears.

What had he done? _A sniveling coward_ … _Pet … Bastard_ … The words still rung in his ears, dull as the crashing of stones against his skull. He deserved every last one of those insults … and more.

The queen stirred and he winced. He kept his body as still as possible, his arm frozen around her. She lifted her head and looked at him languidly and he prayed that his face did not betray him.

“Sleep well?” she asked. Daenerys smiled at him sweetly, her face soft and innocent.

“Well enough.”

“I’m glad you decided to stay. There is no reason for us to hide as if we were children.”

“I did as my queen asked.”

The words left his mouth before he could swallow his pride and for a moment he feared he had given too much away. But her smile only widened and she quickly dropped a kiss on his lips, before rising from the bed.

“Your queen would ask much more of you but I’m afraid we must rise. I have asked Theon Greyjoy to break fast with me today. You will join us, I trust.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

Jon Snow had hated falsehood all his life … Learned to mistrust flatterers and bootlickers, honor truth and abhor lies. His father … Eddard Stark had taught him that. But he was not that man anymore. The Bastard of Winterfell who had hoped to prove himself as honorable and good as the true born children of his lord father was gone. He was a turncloak now, a breaker of oaths, an ill-begotten Targaryen. He had no honor and his face was a mask as his dragon lover rose from the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

There were robes at hand and her handmaiden just outside the door but Daenerys Targaryen chose to walk to the chair naked and began brushing her hair, all the while watching him through the looking glass.

He let his eyes wonder over her body, stopping to linger on her small but perfectly round breasts and the curve of her smooth thigh. That pleased her, he saw, as her cheeks flushed red and her lips parted slightly.

He remembered the first time he had seen her. He had thought her beautiful then. The strange silver hair and the purple eyes were like nothing he had ever seen. A goddess, she seemed, sitting on her high throne. For a moment he had imagined what it would be like to kiss those red lips, run his fingers over the smooth pale skin of her face, uncover the curves hidden beneath her strange clothes.

The thought had brought him relief then. It had given him hope that he was perhaps not as twisted as he had feared. _A Northern fool_ , he thought bitterly.  No matter how much he tried to find that feeling again, it was the Mother of Dragons that stood before him now. All he could see was the fire hidden beneath the surface, her features turning to stone, her voice coming out in a command that could unleash fury and destruction without a single thought. _Dracarys_ … It was the ugliest word he had ever heard.

Outside, her dragons shrieked as they circled the high tower just above them. He had come to know the sounds better than he cared to admit. First there was the ferocious roar of Drogon, hard and fearsome, meant to make men bow and cower. Then came the other, a higher, softer sort of song from the green dragon, Rhaegal. There was a haunting to his roar, a distant cry. _Like the howling of a wolf_ ...  Something in Jon stirred and he found himself jumping from the bed, frightened at the thought.

“Beautiful,” she said, wistfully. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” was all Jon could bring himself to say.

“Soon they’ll be flying over King’s Landing, circling around the Red Keep like Aegon’s dragons once did. They will finally be home.”

He picked up his breeches and started furiously pulling them up his legs, unable to look at her any longer. He did not want to know of her hopes and dreams, of the Westeros of her imaginings with its fat, happy children, smiling women and brave knights, all raised in the shadow of her great beasts. Fire and blood she would bring to his home and call it mercy. _A fool_ , Jon thought. _And I a lecher_.

“Rhaegal will need a rider soon,” she continued. “No dragon can be without a rider. Of course he would need to have the blood of the dragon but Ser Jorah says there are still some who do …We must see to it once the war is over.”

Jon’s stomach twisted painfully. “We?”

“Of course,” she said, turning to look at him. “You will be by my side, through it all.”

He remained speechless, his undershirt barely drawn over his head.

The queen’s eyes grew wide and warm and she came to sit next to him on the bed. “Oh, my brave knight,” she whispered breathlessly, caressing his face. “All this time … did you fear that all I wanted from you were a few nights in my bed?”

If only that was all she wanted. If only she would be content with what little he had given her in that accursed bed. “There will be time to think about that,” he said, forcing a smile. “After the army of the dead are defeated.” He rose from the bed quickly and turned towards the door. He refused to think of her plans for him now. The Night King would be upon them soon. What she wanted, what he wanted … None of it would matter then.

“I know you are worried about your sisters,” Daenerys said.

The mention stopped Jon in his tracks and he turned to look at her. He was always disquieted when she brought up his family, the fear of being found out and what that could mean for them creeping to the surface every time.

“I know you going to King’s Landing will be difficult for them, considering your brother’s condition … Particularly for Sansa.”

 _Do not speak her name_ , he wanted to say. That word in her mouth sounded foul. “She will be fine.”

“She’s come to depend on you, Jon. All the Lords of the North will be prodding and badgering her the moment you go South. But you don’t have to worry. After I take the throne, I plan on naming her my lady-in-waiting. Arya, as well, if she so wishes.”

Jon swallowed back his words. Little sister would refuse, of course. Thinking of the choice words she’d use if given the opportunity almost brought a smile to his face .. Almost ... It was the thought of Sansa bowing and simpering around the dragon queen that made him sick. It was bad enough she had to do it here, in her own home, but to be reduced to that there, in King’s Landing, where she had been mistreated and defiled by that fiend Joffrey and his family of monsters? “My sister’s place is in the North. She is the Lady of Winterfell.”

His words had been hard and implacable but the queen only laughed. “Yes, I remember. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_ …” she mocked.

She busied herself, pulling out dresses from a chest, trying to decide which to wear, apparently oblivious to the storm she had caused in him. “I’m sure your brother remaining here will be enough. As for your sister, you don’t know her very well if you think she belongs here. She will have a better time at court and I’m sure that when there is need of it, she and Tyrion can travel to the North to attend to any important matters.”

“What does Tyrion have to do with it?”

“Well, when they are married, he will …”

“Marriage?” The word hit him like an arrow through the chest, leaving him breathless. “Who spoke of marriage?”

Daenerys turned to look at him surprised. She must have sensed his anger but it did not matter now. _Let her see it_ , he thought.

“She hasn’t told you …” she said. “Varys spoke to her the other day.”

 _We could get married_ … He remembered her words now. He could still see the creases of worry etched on her face, how she twisted and pulled at her fingers the way she always did when something was troubling her.  Her beautiful blue eyes, still fresh with unshed tears … She had sought his protection and he had turned her away.

Jon closed his fists so tight he could barely feel his hands anymore. He wanted to punch his way out through a wall, could almost taste blood on his tongue as he thought of tearing flesh from bone and limbs from bodies. “My sister will not marry anyone without my permission,” he hissed.

“Surely it’s her decision to make,” the queen said, outraged. “You’re her brother, not her keeper.”

As she watched him intently, the thought occurred to him that all of this might be a test. Perhaps she had sensed what he felt, even as he tried to hide it? Was it a slip when his eyes lingered too long where they shouldn’t have? Mayhap a misplaced word had betrayed him … He needed to get out of this stifling room before he did or said something he would regret. “With your permission, I will await you in the solar, Your Grace,” he said curtly, not giving her time to reply before abruptly leaving the room.

It was barely an hour later that they were all assembled in the solar. Not nearly enough time for him to make sense of what had happened. By then his anger had cooled, no longer burning hot, threatening to overcome his senses. It was a cold thing now that seeped through his veins, still and all consuming. It made it hard to think or speak so he retreated to the corner of the room, as he feigned interest in the words exchanged between the queen and her retinue of sycophants, outcasts and murderers.

They all payed humble homage to her. Ser Jorah, the onetime slaver, was first, as always. He took a knee and bent the most. That’s what had gotten him the queen’s favor. Jon wondered if his skin had chaffed after all that bending. Lord Commander Mormont would probably have run Long Claw through both their bellies if he had been here to witness this.

 _She will never see me on my knees_. He had promised himself that much when he had proclaimed her his queen on the boat. Swore it again, so he would not forget, when he was forced to sign the scroll as Warden of the North. It was a small comfort but he took what little joy he could from it.

Lord Varys, the perfumed spider, followed. Barely a bow. That would not win him his queen’s good graces but perhaps delivering Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lannister just might. As he passed by him, he bowed his head to Jon as well, leaving a trail of sickly sweet rose water behind.

Lord Tyrion, the kinslayer, came next. He had always been the least deferential of the queen’s men but on this occasion he bent his knee and bowed his head just as Ser Jorah had done. _Is that how you got her to give you Sansa, Imp?_ He had thought him a friend once. Even after it became clear that Tyrion had laid a trap for him in inviting him to Dragonstone, he still held him in some regard. But as their eyes locked from across the room, it took all of Jon’s strength not to grab him and rip his tongue out with his bare hands. _That’s what Robb would have done_ , he thought bitterly.

When Theon’s turn came, the queen did not allow him to rise. “Stay there,” she instructed, bluntly. Theon cowered, bowing his head even further. “Tell me what happened.”

Theon’s voice broke and trembled as he spoke of how he drove his five ships to the high seas trying to rescue his sister. He recounted with terror how he made his voyage, trying to reach the Iron Islands but was cornered just off the coast of the Arbor, by the Iron Fleet. He spoke at great length of Euron raining fire balls on him, sinking the queen’s ships.

“It’s been more than two months now since the Dragonpit truce,” Ser Jorah said. “He should have been well past the Arbor by the time you reached him.”

“It does seem like your uncle’s boats are surprisingly slow …” the imp agreed.

There was truth to what the queen’s advisors said and Theon’s head jumped up like a frightened hare. Daenerys narrowed her eyes as she waited for his reply and, despite his better judgement, Jon took a step forward, ready to defend him.

“He … he didn’t go directly to Pyke … he was reaving around the Summer Isles.”

“Reaving …” the queen scoffed. “And what of your sister?”

“Dead, your Grace,” Theon said and that Jon believed. The words did not come easily and his hand tightened around his knee, as if he was trying to steady himself. “Euron threw her body overboard.”

“And now that she is gone, so are the Iron Islands and my ships. Or do you think you can take her place?”

Theon raised his head and there was no hesitation to his voice now. “No, Your Grace. No one can take Yara’s place.”

That seemed to anger Daenerys Targaryen. Perhaps it was the reminder that, while she worried for her ships, Theon was mourning his sister. Or perhaps it was her understanding that there were still people around her that valued something above her cause that truly displeased her.

 _Our enemies? Your family, you mean_ … He remembered her spitting out those very words to Tyrion on the beach at Dragonstone.

She was unsure of her Hand’s true loyalties. _That’s why she wants him to wed Sansa_. The dragon queen was good at deluding herself when it suited her. She had probably convinced herself that her motives in arranging the match were pure but, deep down, what she truly wanted was to offer her Hand a boon to ensure he would not abandon her when it was time for his sister and brother to roast in her dragon’s flames, just like Sam’s family before them. 

Whatever qualms he might have had in lying to her, whatever guilt over his deceit and dishonor seemed to die in that moment. She was fire made flesh, leaving only burnt ashes in her wake. And he would not stay his hand from stopping that fire from consuming Winterfell or its Lady.

***

It had been an easy decision to make. Far too easy. As he walked the corridors towards Ser Davos’ chamber, with Ghost stalking behind him, instead of hesitating, he found his steps growing ever more urgent.

He tried to convince himself that what he was about to do was selfless, driven by his desire to protect her. But for a moment he slipped. It was a fleeting image, come and gone as quickly as a gust of summer wind, but there she was, on the Winterfell balcony, holding a babe in her arms. The small smattering of hair peering from beneath the babe’s cap had changed coloring in his imaginings, to red, bright against the white of his small swaddling clothes. Her back was not turned to him this time and she was looking down at him, cradling the infant in her arms, smiling. _Radiant_.  

He chased it away as soon as it came. It was folly to even think of it. He would never see Sansa holding his child in her arms and what he felt, all his stupid dreams and secret longings, would remain unspoken, as was only right.

Gods be good, Sansa would have many beautiful, red headed children once the war was over. She would be happy once more, with a good man that spent his days doing all that he could to be worthy of her. The thought pierced through him, sharp and raw like a rusted blade but he comforted himself in the knowledge that he would not be there to see it.

He looked down to Ghost and ran his fingers through his thick furs. Not all of him, at least. Perhaps by then, there would be none at all. “Stay,” he said and waited until the direwolf took his position, guarding the door.

He knocked twice before he heard Ser Davos answer and soon enough, he found himself by the fire while the old man soaked his feet in hot water, a blanket over his head, coughing loudly.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said. “The cold doesn’t agree with me.”

“It’s all right, Ser Davos. And there’s no need to call me that. I’m not anyone’s Grace anymore.”

The man shrugged. “Old habits die hard.” He reached for a tankard that had been left on the table, seeping the fragrant herbal mixture slowly. “So how can I help you?”

He opened his mouth to speak but found the words stuck at the back of his throat. His cheeks turned red and he dropped his eyes to the floor. All through the morning, his only thoughts were of Sansa. He had not spared a moment to think of what he was about to do or how it would be received. “I …,” he said. “I … have a favor to ask of you.”

Ser Davos only nodded in agreement and waited. The longer the wait extended, the harder Jon found it to speak. He opened his mouth again and again trying to push the words out but ended up swallowing them back down again. In all his life, Jon Snow never imagined having to ask such a thing of any man.

“Go on, son,” Ser Davos said, leaning forward and patting him on the knee with his one good hand. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

 _Son_ … Such a strange word. Even more so under the circumstances. He looked at the grey bearded man for a long while. He was a kind man, always had been. Under the gruffness of his Flea Bottom accent, he was caring and understanding in ways Jon had found very few men to be. He had lost a son too, he knew, at the battle of the Blackwater. Perhaps that would make him want to …

Whatever his answer would be, at least, he could hope that he would not judge him harshly for it. “I shouldn’t be asking but … I have to … Would you be willing to give me your name?” 

As the man’s eyes grew wide in disbelief and his brows arched, Jon’s heart sunk to the pit of his stomach. “Forgive me,” he said, standing up abruptly and turning to leave. “It was wrong of me to ask.”

“Hold on! Sit down!” Ser Davos pointed to the chair in front of him and waited until Jon was seated once more. “Now … You want to explain to me what in the seven hells this is all about?”

Jon found himself buckling under the chastisement as if he were but a green boy caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “I …”

“You’ve been Jon Snow all your life. Made peace with it. Now you want my name. Why?”

“It’s not for me,” Jon said, his voice growing shrill. “I need to marry. I will not make her a Snow!”

The admission drew a deep sigh from Ser Davos. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “I know I’m not your Hand anymore and, since traveling to Dragonstone, you’ve chosen not to seek my counsel, which is your right. But I must advise you that you are making a mistake. You’ve already angered the Northern Lords when you bent the knee. You’ll lose whatever support you still have the moment you take the Targaryen queen to wife.”

“I’m not going to marry Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m marrying Sansa.”

He starred at the floor until the wooden boards blurred before him. He couldn’t bring himself to look up but when he did, he found Ser Davos staring at him, mouth agape.

“I must have heard wrong. Because you couldn’t possibly have said what you just said.”

“The queen wants to force her into a marriage with Tyrion Lannister. I can’t let that happen. I swore I would protect her … I know it’s difficult …”

“It’s not difficult. It’s illegal. Immoral. The laws of Gods and men forbid it.”

Ser Davos’ words crushed up against him like waves against the rocks, unable to crumble his resolve, despite the disgust that shone through in his voice.

“Mother have mercy, I’ve seen the way you look at her but …” He stopped himself, as if a thought had just occurred to him. He grabbed Jon by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Look at me, boy! You haven’t done something to her, have you?”

 “Of course not! I would never hurt her! What do you take me for?” Jon said, pushing him away.

“Her brother,” Ser Davos said, bluntly. “And brothers can’t marry their sisters. Only the Targaryens were mad enough to do it and look how that turned out for them. ”

 _Only the Targaryens_ … Jon didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. _A Targaryen, yes. And just as mad as the rest of them._ How did he not see it before? He had taken his own aunt to bed, while he dreamt and agonized over his own sister day after day … His ancestors would be proud.

He had hoped he could avoid telling him the whole truth but how? He would need his advisor to witness the ceremony. He couldn’t bring himself to involve Bran or Arya into something that could prove dangerous.

“She’s not my sister. Eddard Stark was not my father,” he finally said, putting Ser Davos out of his misery “I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

He had never spoken the words out loud but, as he began to recount the tale of his birth, he found the sting of truth lessening until it was but a dull, faint jolt buried deep inside him. No longer unbearable, at least. Not quite comforting, either. Ser Davos listened carefully, pacing the room. He didn’t interrupt, letting him talk at his own pace. When Jon had finished, his expression had changed. There was no shock or disgust left, only pity. And that Jon found even harder to bear.

“That’s quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into …,” he said. “Does the queen know?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t think she’d take the news that you have a better claim to the Iron Throne all that well.”

“I don’t care about that. She can keep her damn throne!” Jon said, standing up. There was no time for this. No time at all. “Will you help me, Ser Davos?”

The man measured him from head to toe before answering. “You love her, don’t you?”

Whether it was because he knew he would be refused or because the words themselves had grown roots within him for too long, he couldn’t tell, but the question twisted inside his gut.  “I will not touch her. I swear it,” he said.  “When the war is over, if I’m still alive, the marriage will be annulled. I give you my word.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he insisted.

 _Will he make me say it?_ “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Thousands of men died for that iron chair in King’s Landing. Good men, bad men. Stannis Baratheon killed his own brother and daughter for that throne. You come in here, ready to exchange your claim to the Seven Kingdoms for the name of a smuggler from Flea Bottom. And since it’s my name you’re seeking, I want to know why.”

Jon held his gaze as steadily as he could. He knew what he should say: _I care for Sansa. She’s my sister._ _Sister_ … He had used that word over and over again. A shield against the tempest of his own feelings. _Sister_ … “Yes … I love her.”

He waited for the disgust and anger to settle back into Ser Davos’s features but they did not come. Instead he just nodded.

“All right,” he said at last. “You can have my name.”

 

***

“Will you stop pacing like a wolf in a pen? You’re making me dizzy!” Arya said

Whether it was the cold night air, the falling snow or just the incessant charging of his thoughts, Jon found it hard to keep still. He tried, for Arya’s sake, fearing that she might start asking questions he could not give an answer to. He stopped in front of the heart tree and leaned against it, trying to steady his trembling limbs.

The wind howled around them, swirling the fresh shed snow in all directions. The white, smooth bark of the weirwood was frozen under his touch but beneath it he felt the old tree rumble, cracking with whispers. _Kissed by fire …_ _dance with me anon …_ The sound startled him and he jumped back as a form coated in flame passed before his eyes. _Ygritte_ … He starred at the tree’s gaping mouth, an endless black hole, and held his breath until a faint haunting whistle came out when the winter wind blew past it. He shook his head. _I must be going mad._

 _“_ I wish she’d get here already!” Arya said, tapping her hands together and jumping from one foot to the other. “I’m freezing!”

 “I haven’t seen her all day. Was she all right? There was no one … bothering her?”

“I wouldn’t say that. She was bothered that my dress was half covered in mud. Who cares what my dress looks like? We’re at war!”

Jon looked at her and smiled. Her light blue dress and cloak were mucked up worse than a pig farmer’s apron and her hair was the same tangled, unruly nest he remembered peering up from behind the trees when she would follow him around as children. “I’m sorry you have to do all this because of me,” he said.

She shrugged and smiled one of her crooked smiles. “It doesn’t matter. I’d do worse for you than wear a stupid dress.”

The way she said it, the resolve in her voice, troubled him. Whenever they were together, he would look at her and see the scrawny, happy little girl that he had clung to throughout the years that he had been at the wall. Arya running barefoot through the courtyards, laughing, spending hours practicing with her bow when she thought no one was looking, her thin arms wrapped tightly around his neck on that last night they were together … She had kept Winterfell alive for him.

 “Did you find Howland Reed?” he asked.

Arya shook her head. “Do you remember what father used to say about the Neck?”

“A gnarly place where lizard-lions eat your feet,” they both said, laughing.

“I didn’t get my feet eaten but it really is gnarly. Just water everywhere you look, dark and green like moss. You push your paddle down too much and it gets stuck in the mud. Nothing is what it seems there … trees grow from the water all twisted, patches of earth come at you from the fog and then disappear … I looked for Greywater Watch for weeks but I couldn’t find it …”

 “If you didn’t find it, then no one else will either.”

“Even if they do, it won’t matter. Howland Reed isn’t at Greywater. One of his bannermen told me he was gone. Left with his daughter as soon as she returned home, he said.”

“Gone where?”

“The man didn’t know. Lord Reed only told him that he was going to get help.”

Meera Reed had been beyond the wall with Bran and had probably told her father about the army of the dead. The crannogmen were said to counsel with witches and greenseers in the bogs but he had never believed the stories. Although knowing what he did now, Jon Snow was willing to believe many a thing he would not have trusted the sound of in the past. Still, what help could Howland Reed get? A fool’s errand, most likely. But even those were worth something in these dire times.

A light peering through the dark thickness of the trees and Jon watched as Sansa came into the clearing, holding a torch. The soft light casted shadows over her face and she was half covered in snowflakes. Jon’s breath caught in his throat for a moment as her long red hair fluttered in the wind, dancing around her face. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her and not feel his heart beating out of his chest when she smiled at him shyly, the way she did now.

Whatever warmth her presence might have offered, however, was soon extinguished as he found she had not come alone. Theon came behind her, pushing Bran in his wheelchair through the thick coat of snow.

Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, Arya jumped and darted towards Theon, pulling out a knife from inside her sleeve.

“Arya! Stop it!” Sansa screamed.

Theon tried to pull back but Arya swung her knife just the same, barely missing the length of his neck, as Jon came from behind her and pulled her back by the waist.

He pushed her behind him and stood between her and Theon. His body trembled with anger as he looked back at Sansa. “Why is he here?”

When Sansa moved and put her hand on Theon’s shoulder, his blood seemed to boil over. Her eyes bore into him with a cold kind of anger but he was past the point of caring. “He has no place here. Not after what he’s done,” he said. “Tell him to go.”

“No!” she said, rising her chin in that infuriating way she did whenever she disagreed with him. He had no power over her. She did not listen to him. Perhaps it was him that had no place there. Not in the godswood, not with the Starks, not at her side. The thought festered inside of him, like a wound, coming and going any time she looked at him the way her lady mother had once done. _I want you to leave_. It was the last thing Lady Catelyn ever said to him. He could still feel the hatred in her voice, the way it burnt him and made him feel small. Would Sansa tell him that one day as well?

“Theon has something important to tell you,” she said, her voice calmer. The moment her eyes turned soft, he could feel the warmth return to his frozen limbs. He was a fool. “Please listen to him,” she pleaded.

“Listen to him?” he heard Arya screech, behind him. “He betrayed Robb! He chased Bran and Rickon away from Winterfell. Gave it away to the Boltons! I don’t want to hear anything he has to say!”

“It’s all right, Arya,” Bran said, his voice calm and steady, as if nothing had happened. “He has a role to play in all of this.”

“Yes,” she said. “He has. His role is to die!”

She stirred behind him and when Jon turned to restrain her, her knife almost nicked him in the arm. She looked up at him, with big, grey eyes, horrified. “Enough!” he said, taking the knife away from her pliant hands before turning to Theon.  “Speak and have it done with.”

Theon exchanged a look with Sansa. It betrayed an unspoken intimacy that made Jon tightened his grip on Arya’s knife, willing his legs from moving further enough to tear her away.

“I lied,” Theon said. “To the queen … Euron wasn’t going to the Iron Islands.”

“Where then?”

“King’s Landing. He was on his way back from Essos, bringing the Golden Company with him.”

“Cersei never intended to honor the truce,” Sansa said. “That fight at the Dragon Pit was a ruse.”

Jon could feel the bitter sting of the cold wind bite into him. The only reason Daenerys Targareyen had agreed to come North was because the Lannister queen had agreed to a ceasefire. “How many men?”

“Euron had, at least, a hundred ships with him. Maybe ten thousand men,” Theon said. “Elephants too, if the stories about the Golden Company are to be believed.”

“Do you think she plans to attack us?” he asked Sansa.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “She would never march her armies here in the dead of winter. You were right about that. She’ll use them to secure control over the South.”

“ … and wait out to see if the dead kill us or we kill them,” he finished for her. “If the queen finds out you lied to her, it could mean death for you,” Jon said, looking at Theon. “Why did you do it?”

“You know why,” he said. “You were at the council meeting today. You saw. She didn’t lift a finger to help Yara. Barely even cared that she was dead. If she finds out about this, she’ll leave us all to die here.”

“The Targareyen queen must not be allowed to leave,” Bran finally spoke. “We will need her dragons soon. The Night King has made it over the Wall. His army is on the march.”

 “You’ve seen it?” Sansa asked, her voice but a cracked whisper.

Bran must have answered but the sound barely registered. “He has a dragon, doesn’t he?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“A dragon?” Arya asked, confused. “But how …”

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a shaking breath. He had known since he had seen the queen’s beast fall into that frozen lake. All his mistakes seemed bent on coming back to haunt him, all at once. There was a strange kind of stillness that took over him.

“Go back to the castle,” he said and he was surprised to hear his voice sounding so hard and certain, so foreign to his own ears. “Tomorrow we go to war.”

Arya, Bran and Theon obeyed without question. Only Sansa spared him a fleeting look before turning to go.

“Not you,” he said. “You stay.”

He could see the anger just simmering below the surface but she stayed put nonetheless, her arms tightly folded in front of her. He waited and only when he could no longer see the torch peering through the branches, did he speak.

“You trusted Littlefinger once,” he said. “Are you sure you can trust Theon?”

 “Theon is not Littlefinger,” she said, her voice small and vulnerable. “He’s done terrible things, I know. But he’s paid a heavy price for them. He will never be the man that betrayed Robb again.”

He could see her steely armor cracking before his eyes, the slight tremble of her lower lip, the twisting of her fingers, her eyes grown large and hurt. Whatever hardness there was in him, whatever darkness, it could never withstand those blue eyes. He wanted to drown in them. Perhaps he already had.

Theon had saved her, when no one else was there to help her. He felt ashamed for begrudging her that bond. It was the only thing that had kept her alive. Despite it all, however hard it was to admit it, he was grateful to Theon Greyjoy. Without him, he would have never gotten Sansa back.

“You march tomorrow?” she asked and the concern in her voice tugged at his chains and he let them steer him, clinging and pulling at them to keep himself ashore.

“Aye,” he said. “If the Night King has made it past the wall, he’ll attack Last Hearth first. With any luck, we’ll be able to keep them there.”

 “And you’ll take the queen with you.”

“I’ll take her armies and her dragons with me. She controls both so I suppose she can come along,” he said, trying to smile.

Sansa tried too but instead her chin wobbled, as she took off a necklace that she had worn beneath her garment as far back as the Wall. She took his hand and placed it in his palm.

“My mother bought it for me, in White Harbor,” she said. “I know that you and her didn’t get along but … when I was in King’s Landing and Joffrey or the queen wanted to see me, I would always wear it.”

He twisted the chain in his hands. A finely made silver string with a dragonfly pendant. Delicate and fragile, its transparent wings extended, ready to take flight.

“Silly, I know,” she said. “But I thought it would keep me safe. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to …”

He shook his head and clasped it around his neck quickly, pulling at his undershirt to have it pressed against his skin. “I’ll never take it off,” he promised. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She smiled at him and wrapped her arms around him. He pulled her close, holding her tightly and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He wanted to remember this moment. The softness of her skin, the warmth of her rosemary and winter roses smell, the shiver in her body as she clung to him, her tears wetting his cheek.

“You will take care of yourself, won’t you?” she whispered, pulling away just enough to look at him. “For me?”

His thumb traced a tear out of the corner of her eye, wiping it away and lingering there, caressing her skin gently. “I will try. For you.”

She tilted her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. He found himself staring at her blue tinged lips, feeling his own tingling in anticipation, longing to feel her wet, hot warmth, the pressure of his mouth against hers, rubbing the blue away, turning her lips red and full. He swallowed hard and pulled away, letting her body slip through his fingers.

“We have to go,” he said. “If we ride hard, we can be at Castle Cerwyn in a few hours. Ser Davos is waiting for us.”

“Why do we need to ride to Castle Cerwyn?”

“You said we needed to marry. It has to be tonight.”

“Marry?”

She sounded incredulous and more than a little shocked. “Did you think I would let them force you to marry Tyrion?” Jon’s breath caught in his throat but he spoke just the same. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She bit her lip so hard, he feared she might draw blood. “I … I tried to. But you were so angry and then I was angry … I just couldn’t …”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, taking her hand.

“Jon, you don’t understand,” she said. “You don’t have to do this. There’s no need.”

“I will never let him near you again!” he said. “I promised I would protect you and I will.” _I love you_ , he wanted to say.  _Whatever you need … my body … my last drop of blood … it’s yours. It will always be yours._

“I’m not going to marry Tyrion,” she said, looking down. “I’m betrothed to Theon.”

His confessions died on his lips, unspoken, his hand falling to the side. The wind howled all around them and yet his body had turned numb. “When?” he asked.

She wrapped her arms around herself tightly and could not meet his eye. “After he arrived. I told him of the queen’s plans and he agreed to marry me, once the war was over.”

In the distance, the bells began to ring, over and over again. From the battlements, men’s shouts reached them all the way into the heart of the godswood.

“Riders at the gates!” they screamed. “Riders at the gates!”

As the wind grew more vicious, it drowned the sound, filling the air with its howling. He could barely even see Sansa anymore over the lashing of the snow, even though she was standing right in front of him.

The war … the war … He understood now. He was not brought back to love Sansa Stark or to marry her. _I am the shield that guards the realms of men_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So sorry for the long wait on this one! I got side-tracked by the secret Santa one-shot and also took a few days off for Christmas. But I worked hard to get this to you before the end of the year and just barely managed to squeeze it below the deadline. I hope you enjoy it and Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> Warning: major character death ahead - I'm so sorry. :( Also, descriptions of injuries etc. might be disturbing so read with caution.

The left pauldron slipped through his fingers and fell with a loud thud as the steel hit the stone floor of the armory.

“Pod, pay attention!” Lady Brienne instructed, as she secured the gorget tighter around her neck.

“Yes, my lady,” he said, bending down to pick up the piece of armor. As he started to pull on the leather bindings around his knight’s shoulder, he found his hands clumsy and shaking. He stiffened his posture, willing his limbs to steady themselves, afraid that Lady Brienne might see and suspect him to be a coward.

The truth was, Pod was afraid. Try as hard as he might, he couldn’t help it. Even through the thick walls of the armory, he could hear the ear piercing sounds of the dead and the screams of men as they charged into battle. He didn’t know how many there were out there. A hundred maybe? A thousand? He had only caught a glimpse of the half rotten bodies, rushing towards the gates, their mouths dripping blood before he and Lady Brienne hurried into the armory for their weapons.

He tried to retrieve the courage he had found during the Battle of the Blackwater. It had been a terrible night then, worse perhaps than this. Looking over the horizon and seeing the sea filled with ships, all of them carrying men ready to kill them. He remembered the sounds of the ladders at they hit the walls of King’s Landing, the crazed look in men’s eyes as they came charging at him outside the gates. And yet, he could not remember being as afraid as he was now. As frightening as it had been, no matter the sleepless nights that followed, when he was hit with memories of the sound his axe made when he cracked that soldier’s skull, those were men. Flesh and blood, just like him.

But what he saw down there … Those were not men. The cold, blank look in their eyes, the way their half exposed bones cracked under the impact of the first rocks that were thrown from the battlements only for those dangling bodies to rise again and keeping charging. It sent shivers down his spine even to think of it. It was a fate worse than death. And how do you fight something worse than death?

“Getting ready for the ball, are ya?” Ser Sandor barked as he pushed him out of the way. He screamed and pulled trembling men by the collar and out the door. “Come on, you fuckers! Get out there!”

Lady Brienne scowled and pushed his hands away. “That’s enough! They’re as tight as they’ll ever be.”

She pulled Oath Keeper out of its sheath, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the torch light and headed for the door. He tried to follow suit but his knees wobbled so hard he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

“Not so fast!” Gendry said, coming from behind him. “You’re going to need this!” He shoved a dragonglass lance and a dagger in his hands. He swung a war hammer with sharp spikes all around the tip, on his shoulder, and ran out. He had handed all the men in the armory similar, makeshift weapons even if some of the hardened Northern soldiers had grumbled in protest.

“You’re going to be glad of them when they come at you,” Ser Sandor had said, handing them out just the same. “Those dead fuckers are hard to kill.”

They had all taken them, in the end. None of them really wanted to get into a fight with the Hound. Some were still sporting black eyes and bruised ribs from sparring with him in days past.

 “Pod, are you coming?” Lady Brienne shouted back at him.

“Y … yes, my lady,” he stuttered over his words and rushed to her side.

He clung to his pike tightly and took a deep breath. Outside, the cold wind storm bit hard, swirling all around him and turning his chain mail to ice against his cloth doublet, making him shiver as he ran after Brienne towards the battlements.

Men were running in all directions through the pitch darkness and archers were already in position on top of the battlements. Some had dragonglass arrows, some were lighting up regular tips from huge fire pits that had been brought up.

“Theon, you’re in charge,” he heard King Jon shout as he and Lady Brienne approached. “Rain fire on them as soon as they get close to the gates!”

Lord Greyjoy nodded and turned towards the archers. “I want everyone lined up in a straight line!” he shouted. “And bring that pitch!”

His Grace then turned to them. By now, a group of ten men had already gathered around Pod and he could feel their breaths falling heavily on his neck, most rancid with ale but at least it warmed him somewhat. “You,” he instructed. “With me!”

They all followed him down, through the court yard towards the North Gate. As the doors opened, Pod’s heart beat out of control. His frozen fingers dug deep into his lance fearing that he might drop it.

“If you want to stay here, Pod, you can,” Lady Brienne said.

“Aye, boy,” Ser Sandor said, coming next to him. “Just hide under the covers with all the other frightened hens.”

He tried to smile politely, as his father had taught him to do, but his lips were too frozen. “I’m f…f… fine, my lady,” he said, through chattering teeth.

He could barely make out the king’s face through the darkness but he could hear his voice bellowing across the court yard: “Whatever you see out there, just keep swinging your sword.”

The men yelled in response and the gates opened.

Winter Town was drenched in darkness. Pod could barely see the rooftops in the distance through the thick hailstorm. The wind lashed at him as he advanced. He felt his heart beating out of control, the sound of it overpowering and his breathing became heavy. He looked around and, for a brief, terrifying moment, he couldn’t see anyone. He spun and spun and everywhere he turned all he could see was black and sharp ice that dug deep into his face and hands, making his eyes water and his skin burn.

Then a light pierced through …. A flaming sword swung back and forth at the entrance to the town. He had heard stories of Beric Dondarrion and his fiery blade but the sight did not compare to the songs. The minstrels claimed the sword was three feet long at least and that once swung if could shatter a castle wall by itself.

Ser Beric’s sword was nothing like that. It seemed a normal enough blade to Pod, with the exception of the red and yellow flame that burned all along its edges. Still he was grateful for it guiding his way.

The closer he got to the thick of the fight, the more he could distinguish the sounds, although men’s faces largely remained a mystery. The screeches were the worst part. Like crackling ice they were, echoing through the dark as men fought ghosts. There was a sickly, sweet stench in the air that made him queasy. _It smells like rot_ , he thought.

He ran towards Beric Dondarrion’s light and as he reached it, he could see the flame illuminating what was in front. A half rotten corpse emerged from the darkness and came straight for him. Dressed in rags, a gash across his face, the flesh of his cheek flapping limply in the air, he stretched boney arms towards him. Pod kept his lance straight and pushed forward, piercing the creature in the stomach. It gave out a shrill sound and his cold, icy eyes glowed and burnt for a moment before they were extinguished as wood ambers in the rain.

Emboldened he took one more step towards the darkness. It was all for naught as he felt a staggering weight on his back that made him stumble and fall on his knees. The wight was on his back clawing and biting, trying to get through his chainmail. He moved around frantically, falling to the ground and pulling at the rotten limbs, trying to get it off. The skin felt mushy to the touch and wrinkled and he peeled bits of it off as he pulled. He couldn’t stop himself from retching right over his armor.

He scrambled, trying to find the dagger that he had placed at his hip, while the dead hands pulled and clawed. He could hear the screeching invading his ears but he felt no breath before sharp teeth dug deep into his ear, pulling it off. He screamed in agony, his vision becoming blurred and blood dripped down his neck, turning cold.

Finally, he could feel the rugged surface of the dragonglass and he wrapped his fingers around it tightly, pulling it out, even as the sharp edges dug into his flesh and cut. He pushed it as far back as he could, and the creature moaned and shook violently before releasing him.

He gasped loudly, his breath coming out frozen and shaking, as his fingers grasped at the snowy ground, trying to get up as quickly as he could. The whole right side of his face was numb and cold and when he went to put his hand over where his ear would have been, it was wet and sticky to the touch. He stared down at his fingers although he could not see anything.

Then a sudden flash of light pierced through the sky and fell inches away from him, a gust of hot air blown in his direction. His eyes moved from his bloody hand upwards and he saw the foreign Queen on top her black dragon. She steered the beast on and it brought forth black and red fire that left a trail all around the frozen ground.

When he looked around, he saw the entire Winter Town drenched in fire light and, through it, the wights withering and screaming as they crumbled to the ground. Some clung to their human victims taking them down with them to their fiery deaths. Men screamed and cursed as they ran from the incoming fire, a swarm of wights on their heels.

“Bring that dragon down!” the King yelled, as the dragon passed above him. “You’re going to kill us all!”

Pod could hear faint crying and he looked in front of him, trying to focus beyond the snow and flaming storm. Huddled on the ground, two young boys clung to each other as a cold shadow approached them. He could see the burning blue eyes, glowing in the darkness, turning the fire to steam as he stepped over it. He was tall and gaunt, with long, brittle white hair and milky skin. His armor seemed made of ice itself, polished and clear and the shadows of flames and bodies danced over it like clouds might over a frozen lake.

“He’s coming for them!” he screamed, looking around for someone to help. No one paid him any mind. All around him men fought and fell, some rising again to claw and bite at their own brothers in arms.

Pod hesitated for a moment but when one of the boys screamed again, crying for help, he started running. He kept his pike at his side, stretched out, ready for attack. When he reached the children, he pushed them behind him. “Run to the castle!” he screamed at them. “Now!”

The boys grabbed hold of each other’s hands and disappeared into the storm. He stood his ground, even as the monster approached. He had a sword in his hand, sharp and transparent as an icicle clinging down from a rooftop. He came towards Pod and swung his sword. He ducked and pushed his lance forward, hitting only air.

The creature was smooth and elegant, moving quickly and efficiently and soon Pod found his hands growing heavy. He swung and missed again. The shadow grabbed hold of his pike pulling him closer.

Pod gasped and tried to pull back but the monster was too strong. He felt his chainmail ripping and before he could look down a withering pain spread out from his stomach all across his body. So strong was the pain that he had no voice left to scream. His eyes widened and when he looked down, he found an arm half gone through his stomach.

He wondered dumbly if the cold shadow was also a court trickster. He had seen one of those in King’s Landing once. He made a dove appear from under a red scarf. He could still see that scarf dangling in the summer breeze … catching the light and casting pools of yellow and red onto the stone floor.

He heard the faint sound of his name: “Pod!” and he looked back. Lady Brienne was standing across from him. Through the flames, her face changed and melted away and for a moment he was back home, in the gardens, helping his mother plant daffodils. She had always liked them and every year she would plant a new row.

He had given a daffodil from those gardens to the first girl he ever kissed. She was pretty, he remembered, with honey colored hair and flushed cheeks … As the hand twisted and turned in his gut, Pod’s vision dimmed and soon there was only the cold.

***

Tyrion stretched his limbs under the heavy burden of his armor, as he sipped on perhaps the tenth glass of Dornish red that evening. He let the sharp and tangy taste coat his lips, linger on his tongue, turning his mouth dry and satiated.

Through hooded eyes, he looked at the men assembled in the Great Hall as they spoke above one another, their voices raised in righteous indignation. Beric Dondarrion and his wildling companion had brought more than five hundred dead men with them from the North. They had brought news. And the news was as bleak as it could be. The wall had fallen under the fire of Viserion, Last Hearth was reduced to ashes and Karhold was under attack. Things had gotten so dire within the castle, that even the ravens had been eaten before the two men rode across the North to get help from Winterfell.

The knowledge of the Night King riding a dragon and the destruction that Drogon had left in Winter Town that night made the Northern lords rise up in anger at the thought of fighting alongside the queen and her men.

Lord Manderly, the fat goat, was the first among them to voice his discontent: “You want us to go to Karhold, with this army of savages and those dragons that almost burnt us alive tonight?”

It had been poor judgement on Daenerys’ part to fly Drogon through the dark. Tyrion was surprised she had left the Northmen with only minor injuries, instead of a fiery departure from the world of the living. He would have advised against it, had she asked.

Daenerys Targareyen hardly asked anything of him anymore. Her thoughts were far too filled that night with the thought that Jon Snow might be taken from her by the wights that had paid them a visit. She had jumped into the thick of the fight without a moment’s hesitation. At times it seemed she would drive her dragons and her armies off a cliff if Jon Snow asked her to.

“What happened tonight was reckless,” Jon said. “But the dragons are our best weapon against the Night King and his army. You saw what a few hundred of these creatures can do. What do you think will happen when we’re faced with hundreds of thousands?”

“What will happen if we are faced with the beast you and this woman gave to our enemy?”

Jon prattled on, his strong, heroic voice rising over the crowd, trying to minimize the damage. He had the voice of a hero, Tyrion gave him that. The posture too, although perhaps not the stature. _He’s taller than some_. He envied his ability to hold the attention of even those that clearly hated him.

_You need to gain Jon Snow’s trust before it’s too late_ , Varys had told him a few nights before. As always, his web riddled friend had no wish to elaborate on the advice, only adding that all would be revealed soon enough. Whatever all might mean.

But gaining Jon’s trust wasn’t as easy a task as it had once been. And truth be told, the man was starting to irk him. _You’ll only get in the way_ , he had said. He could still hear that thick Northern accent spit at him, laced with distain. He had saved King’s Landing from Stannis, he had fought bravely on the battlefield but when he had emerged from his rooms, dressed in his armor, Jon Snow thought it right to leave him behind with the women and children.

Perhaps it was for the best. He had never been one for war. But it was something else that bothered him. Something he could not quite place or perhaps was unwilling to admit. Jon was angry at him. In fact, if his understanding of people hadn’t faltered completely, he could swear the bastard hated him.

He supposed it must have something to do with his little trick back on Dragonstone where he meant to catch him unawares in order to make him more pliable to bending the knee. But Jon Snow was a direct man, hot blooded and foolhardy. He had expected to be confronted with bitter accusations.

Yet that never happened … Instead he had turned what should have been a simple, albeit forced, flexing of the knee into a Northern campaign detour complete with a war on the monsters his sister had used to scare him as a child. _What a fucking mess!_

“Bear Island has steadfastly supported the Starks, my lord,” Lyanna Mormont, the Little Bear as they called her here, said. “We followed your brother, Robb, down South because he was our king. We stood with you against Ramsay Bolton when no one else would. But we cannot support you now. Not with one of our own Northerners in your cells. And not after what the Queen’s men and her dragons have done.”

_A determined little girl_ , Tyrion thought. All steel and Northern pride hidden underneath that small frame. She even managed to look imposing as she stared down Jon Snow. He looked down in shame at her words and Tyrion couldn’t help a small smile from escaping him, even if her words meant only more headaches to follow when he would have to placate his ever increasingly angry Queen.

“Bear Island has never back down from a fight,” Jorah Mormont said. “My father used to say that there were no fighters fiercer in all the Seven Kingdoms than on our little island. Do you mean to prove his words false?”

“You did that a long time ago,” the Little Bear replied, holding her chin high. “Your father said you would be the greatest lord House Mormont had ever known. He trusted you and we put our faith in those words … Words you betrayed when you shamed our house.”

Ser Jorah looked as if the ground was going to swallow him whole. If he had expected to breach some sort of understanding with his indomitable niece, he was thoroughly disabused of that notion when the Little Bear turned on her heels and left. One by one, the great Northern Lords turned their backs on the Queen and her Warden and left the Great Hall, without by or leave, until only the Southerners and the Northern Fool remained.

“You swore that your people would support me,” Daenerys said, her eyes burning with accusations as she looked at her lover.

Jon Snow scrambled and Tyrion took another sip of his wine, settling in. He was going to enjoy seeing him squirm.

“They will,” he said. “In time, they …”

“Time!” Daenerys screamed. “That’s all you have to say? I save their miserable lives and they need time? They’re all sniveling cowards! One look at the enemy and they’re ready to hide behind their frozen walls!”

The Queen’s voice rang throughout the hall. Tyrion knew from experience just what a violent storm her anger could be and, as she started pacing around furiously, he almost rose from his seat to talk to her. _No, better wait_ , he thought.  _Let her disappointment in her bastard lover grow. Then you will win back her favor, not before._

“I have a mind to leave them all here to die and return to Dragonstone! Let them see how they fare without my dragons or my _savages_!”

“Daenerys, please …” Jon said, taking a step towards her. His familiarity was not met kindly, judging by her rigid posture and he backtracked immediately. “Your Grace …”

“Perhaps it is best if you were to return South, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah spoke. And for once, Daenerys turned her back to Jon Snow and whatever attempts at touching her soft woman heart he might have sprouted, and listened. “I wanted to postpone telling you because I wanted to confirm it first but, in light of what’s happened, I think it’s best you know now.”

“What is it, Ser Jorah?” she asked, her voice a little softer.

Ser Jorah reached inside his doublet and took out a crumpled scroll. “I received a message from one of my old comrades in the Golden Company.”

“Is it news from Meereen? Has something happened?”

“No. The Golden Company is not in Essos, Khaleesi. They arrived on the shores of Westeros a fortnight ago.”

Tyrion’s smile froze on his face and his hand tightened around his goblet. His mind turned and twisted until it arrived at the only possible conclusion one could.

“My comrade says that they have been commissioned by Cersei Lannister.”

_Stupid, vindictive, greedy woman!_ He had been foolish enough to believe Cersei would stick to her end of the bargain, if not for her sake, at least for her child’s. _She’s going to get all of us killed._

Just as he was contemplating his early passing from the world of the living, Daenerys turned to him: “Did you know about this?”

He struggled to stand up, still a little shaken under the effects of the Dornish red … Or, at least, that’s what he tried to tell himself as he looked her in the eye. “I did not,” he said. “It could mean nothing, Your Grace,” he tried. “Perhaps she plans on sending them here to aid our cause …”

“You are a drunken fool,” she spat at him. “But even you can’t be as foolish as that.”

Her words stung but he had no time to think on them as she came closer. He had seen that expression on her face before: hard, unmoving, eyes wide and permanently fixed. She had worn it when she attacked the Yunkish fleet and when she had burnt Randall and Dickon Tarly. Even the Dothraki had felt the brunt of it when they were bathed in Drogon’s flames outside the Winterfell gates. Was he to be next?

“If your sister has acquired a mercenary army, she plans on using it against me. The question is: did you know of it? Should I add your name to the list of men that have betrayed me?”

“Your Grace,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could as he stared down the dragon’s fire. “What reason would I have to lie? I have tied my fate to your cause, as you well know. My only wish is to see you upon the Iron Throne.” _And the Gods help us when you get there …_

“So you agree with Ser Jorah that I should return South?”

Tyrion hesitated. Part of him wanted to tell her yes. _Yes, turn back South, conquer the throne, kill my sister and brother, lay waste to King’s Landing._ What had Westeros or his family ever done for him that he should protect them?

_Jaime saved your life_ , a small voice inside him said. Those things … those things that had come tonight ... They would come for all of them if the North should fall. And what chance did it have to stand without Daenerys and her dragons?

Damn them! Damn the Northmen and their pride for defying her. If they had been more pliant, she would have a harder time now deciding if she should let them all die. And damn the small voice in his murderous brain pushing him to do the right thing. As much as he knew himself to be Tywin Lannister’s son, he would not be able to live with the death of his brother. Not when every time he closed his eyes he could see the damned fool charging head first for Daenerys’ dragon.

“Your Grace, what need is there for you to march South?” Varys spoke.

They all turned to look at him then. He stood, arms folded in his large sleeves, the same calm and placid expression on his face. Tyrion could see the scheme at play behind the mask and silently prayed it was a good one. He needed all the help he could get.

“If what Ser Jorah says is true, the Golden Company will be at the gates of Winterfell soon enough. Why risk an arduous journey for your army? The Northern winter will clear most of them away and whatever is left will have a hard enough time mounting a siege through the heavy snows.”

“Why would they come here?” Daenerys asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to simply take back what I won, while I’m away saving the North?”

“She will send them to capture my sister and Lord Tyrion,” Jon Snow said. “As revenge for her son’s death.”

As Tyrion searched Jon’s face, all he saw starring back was the same earnestness that had gotten his father and brother killed. The Stark men had always been honorable fools, he had always thought. Admirable, certainly but not men made to have long lives. Still, could Jon Snow be foolish enough to believe Cersei would risk an entire army just to capture his own little self and Sansa Stark?

“So what you are proposing is that I hide behind walls and wait for her to attack me?” Daenerys said, her mouth twisting in disgust. She had never been one for waiting. Caution and planning were not among the things she valued. But whatever Varys and Jon Snow had said did manage to distract the Queen from himself and, for that, Tyrion could not help but be grateful.

“Your Grace,” Jon said, taking a step towards her. “If we were to march on Karhold and ….”

Daenerys raised her hand, forcing him to stop. “I’ve heard all I need to for tonight, my lords. You will have my decision in the morning.” She turned to leave then, but not before adding: “Ser Jorah, please join me in my chambers. I should like to hear more about your friend.”

They all bowed to her as she left and Tyrion could feel his knees trembling, thinking of his lucky escape. Why did it still surprise him? His whole life had been a lucky escape, after all.

He looked up at Jorah and came at his side just as the knight was about to follow his queen’s command. “I would have appreciated a word of warning,” he said, his voice low.

“She needed to know,” Jorah said, unmoved by his chastisement and he left without another word.

He had done well to separate him from the queen when he had arrived in Meereen. Ser Jorah’s loyalty to Daenerys was unwavering and, like all men who felt he had disappointed the one they loved, he had now resolved on following her every wish without question. _A grave mistake_ , Tyrion now realized. He had hoped to find an ally in Jorah when he had returned to the queen’s service. Thought he had found one too when he had tried to counsel Daenerys against Jon Snow’s travel arrangements. It seemed as if he was committing one mistake after another.

As he turned to look at Jon Snow, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was yet another mistake he was about to make. And a fatal one at that. But what choice did he have? He could only hope that Varys’ advice had merit. It usually did …

“It seems that you and I need to talk,” he said.

Jon stared down at him, the distain so evident it almost made Tyrion regret he had said anything.

“I believe it is in both our interests that the queen not march South. Don’t you agree?”

The Northern bastard gave him but a wry half smile and shook his head, before turning to leave.

“Come now, Jon,” he said, coming at his side. “We used to be friends once.”

When he turned to look at him, his eyes were burning with anger. At what Tyrion could not say but he clenched his fist again and again, as if deciding whether to strike him down or not. “Were we?” he hissed.

“I certainly thought so,” Tyrion said, taken aback by his reaction. “I don’t know what I have said or did to cause your anger but perhaps you could share it with me over a glass of Dornish red.” When Jon said nothing, Tyrion pressed on. “I’m sure you’ve had worse company than the Imp of Casterly Rock these past few years.”

He was only met with a scowl and a short nod of the head but Tyrion supposed it was better than nothing.

As they sat down at the table next to the fire, in the confines of his chamber, Tyrion realized that plying Jon with wine would yield little. The Northern appetites as well as their tolerance was well known. So he had reached for the next best thing: his cyvasse board. It was all the craze in Essos and he had picked it up during his forced travels as a slave. One of his slavers had introduced him to it, goading him into showing just how clever he was. He had been kind enough to promise not to cut out Tyrion’s tongue if he managed to beat him.

Tyrion’s tongue had been saved that day and he made quite a bit of coin later on as he played the game against the nobles of Meereen. You could tell a great deal about a man from the way he played cyvasse and he doubted Jon Snow would be different.

He took to the rules easily enough. Men of war were always certain of victory when presented with the board. But it was not battle skill that won you a game of cyvasse. It was your mind and that Tyrion knew was a skill Jon Snow hadn’t had much incentive to use. _All the better_ , Tyrion thought.

As Jon lifted the screen separating the two sides of the board, Tyrion saw that he had been right in his estimation. He had placed his dragon, heavy horse and elephants up front. Bold and reckless, much like his performance during the Battle of the Bastards. His mountain range was arrayed half haphazardly, cutting off part of his army from the rest and leaving his king in dangerous peril.

“Bold formation, Jon Snow,” he said, sipping his wine.

“Unlike yours,” his gruff opponent replied.

The onyx and jade pieces glimmered in the fire light as Tyrion appraised his own formation. He has set up hidden flaks for his trebuchets and crossbowmen that would slowly close in to squash the other army like a vice. Jon would find himself in the midst of a slaughter, before he could even tell it was coming.

He bid Jon to make the first move and the young man did not disappoint, bringing the full brunt of his jade heavy horse upon Tyrion’s small onyx rabble line. Honorable and foolish just like his display in the Dragon Pit.

“You do know that Ser Jorah has been laying the seeds of your demise all through the evening, don’t you?” he said, moving his catapult.

“You believe he will convince her to march South?” Jon said, bringing forth his trebuchet to protect his crossbow men. They were already lost but it was in his character to try to protect the weak. Crushing him was no sport at all, Tyrion thought. Like a lamb to slaughter he marched onward, heedless and proud, just as his father had done when he gave his dear sister the warning she needed to crush him.

“Of course,” Tyrion said. “Ser Jorah is utterly devoted to the queen and her needs. Something you have failed in as of late. She is a woman used to unwavering loyalty and unquestioning adoration. And she likes men that give her what she wants.”

Tyrion movements became bolder, as his hidden flanks closed in and he began to clear his way towards Jon’s king.

“Must be why you’ve found yourself sidelined these past few moons,” Jon said, moving his light horses in to attempt an ill-advised attack against Tyrion’s elephants.

Tyrion smiled wirily, not able to dismiss his rebuke. “Perhaps if we were to join our forces, we would be able to gain her favor once more.”

“Is that why I’m here? For an alliance?” he said, the words coming out bitter. “I told you, Tyrion. Lies won’t win us this war. There is nothing you could offer me to convince me to give you want you seek.”

_No_ , Tyrion thought regretfully as his onyx elephants crushed Jon’s jade light horses. _Secret alliances are not to be attempted with honorable fools. Not if one is partial to keeping one’s head on their shoulders._ For all of Varys’ skill, he had overestimated Jon Snow’s willingness to do what needed to be done. He shook his head sadly, looking at the board and then back up at his tired and weathered opponent. “It was a mistake to attack with the full brunt of your forces, Jon,” he said, pushing his elephant forward towards Jon’s last line of defense. “You should have kept your dragon close.”

Still, all was not lost, he thought. There was always the possibility of moving a piece across the board without it knowing it was moved. After all, Daenerys, despite her current anger, was very much infatuated with Jon Snow. If Tyrion managed to push Jon in the direction he needed him to go in without the Northman thinking his honor was compromised, perhaps he could manage to stave the queen’s worst impulses long enough for them to win this damnable war.  

Just as Tyrion made ready to bring in his heavy horses in for the kill, there was a shuffle outside the door. A loud thud followed it, like the crashing of iron on stone and Jon stood up immediately, his sword half-unsheathed.

“Stay here,” he told him, as he moved towards the door.

Tyrion stood up as well. “The guards must have gotten drunk and knocked over one of the torches.”

Jon shook his head, opening the door slowly. “I sent most of the guards to tend to their wounds or sleep.”

All Tyrion could see outside was darkness. There was nothing moving in the shadows, nothing amiss. And he still had need of Jon Snow. They were to march to war in a few hours and he needed to plant his seeds before morning came and Daenerys left them all here to die. He made one last attempt to stop him. “A foolish guest must have stumbled over,” he said, pointing towards the table. “We still have a game to play and more wine to drink.”

Jon looked back at the board and then at Tyrion. “The game is over,” he said and stepped into the hallway, sword in hand.

***

Sansa sat on the cold floor, her fingers still latched in Ghost’s furs as she tried to regain her composer through whimpers and tears. The nightmares had been worse that night and she stumbled out of bed towards the fireplace, the only source of light in the room. Ghost had been startled from his sleep at the foot of her bed but came rushing to her side, coiling himself around her side as she trembled and held on to him for dear life.

Ramsay had come to her again but it had been different this time. Through the snow blizzard he came, eyes glowing in the darkness, stretching his pale, white arms as they wrapped around her neck. She tried keeping her eyes closed, telling herself it was only a nightmare but she couldn’t. When she had opened them, she saw his half eaten face closing in on her with sharp, bloody teeth. Snickering, flesh hanging from where his mouth should have been, he bit her hard as she tried to fight him off. _I am a part of you_ , he had said.

“I am Sansa Stark,” she said, her arms tightening around Ghost’s neck. “You don’t frighten me!” Her voice came out cracked and broken and she burst out crying at how weak it sounded.

“I wish Jon were here …” she whispered to the direwolf. The words escaped before she had a chance to check them and she bit her lip hard. She shouldn’t have said that. And yet she could not help but think how much better it would be if he were there. She was certain there would be no more nightmares. Or, at least, she wouldn’t be so frightened when she woke up.

It was the nerves playing tricks on her, she knew. This night had taken a toll on her … on all of them. When those dead things came, crushing against the gates, it felt as if the end of the world was upon them. The screeches still echoed in her ears, the dragon’s fires dancing before her eyes. Screams followed and burn wounds that needed to be tended. She had helped Sam and Maester Wolken as best she could but those wounds … they were so horrible. Bubbling blackened skin, some so burnt that limbs had to be taken off. A terrible thing …

But fire killed wights, Jon had said. Her heart twisted at the thought that soon he would be out there battling those dead creatures, while fire rained all around him. Perhaps he would be unharmed by it, she considered for a moment. He had Targareyen blood, after all. But no … That could not be. His poor, burnt hand was proof enough of that.

_I promised I would protect you and I will_. Even through the raging storm and the harsh cold, his voice had sounded so gentle and loving. And his lips on her moments before had been so warm and soft. It had been a sweet kiss … his hands cupping her cheeks, his mouth brushing against hers tenderly, just as she had imagined when she was a young girl. She could almost taste the lemony tang he had left behind and her lips tingled at the memory, her stomach fluttering.

_No!_ There had been no kiss. He had cupped her cheek is true and wiped her tears away. But for a moment, one single moment, it felt as if he wanted to kiss her. He leaned in ever so slightly, his tongue wetting his lips and she found herself half closing her eyes expecting a touch that never came.

Why, oh, why did she ask Theon to marry her? She should have just told Jon the truth. If she had, by now they would be married and …

She stood up frightened and quickly wiped her tears away. She wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered, forcing her mind to stop wandering. What was she saying? Jon was trying to protect her, nothing more. He was her brother, as much as he had ever been. She could not condemn him to a loveless life simply because she needed a husband to escape the clutches of the Lannisters.

Theon and her would have a good enough arrangement, she was certain. As soon as the Northern lords accepted him, they could be married and remain in Winterfell. Theon cared for her and he so desperately needed a family. Pangs of guilt still pulled at her as she remembered her entreatments to him. _You and I can be a family_ , she had said. When he had asked if she was certain it was what she wanted, she had told him she thought they’d be happy together. She could still remember Theon’s sad smile as he accepted and her relief at having undone the queen’s plans. Theon would not hurt her, she had thought. Even if he wanted to, he did not have the means to … She had been so selfish! And now that it was all said and done, she was even more terrible for thinking of ways to rid herself of the betrothal. _I must be content with what I have_ , she determined.  

It only took a shuffle outside and a loud thud that had Ghost jumping from the fire place and running towards the door, for those thoughts to be chased away like clouds on a summer’s day. The direwolf rose on his hind legs and scratched at the wood.

“What is it?” she asked, coming closer. Her heart beat out of her chest as she opened the door. “Jon?” she said, softly.

There was only darkness outside and Ghost run down the hallway. “Ghost, stop!” she urged but it was in vain. He was already off and she could see nothing. Not until a torch invaded her sight, blinding her for a moment.

 “Go back inside, my lady,” Brienne said, running towards her, sword unsheathed. She was in a sorry state, poor woman. Her armor half discarded, dried up blood on her hands, her eyes red and puffy. Pod had been killed and she had carried his body inside the castle. She had never seen Brienne like that, eyes dull, face tightened in a grimace to stave off her tears. Sansa had sent her to sleep, promising to take care of Pod’s body but it seemed the woman couldn’t find rest any more than she could.

“What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“I don’t know. I think the sounds came from the East Wing.”

Sansa sighed, reaching inside the room for her robe. “It must be one of the queen’s men. I best go with you.”

“It’s better if you stay here, my lady.”

“Nonsense. If a fight has broken out or if someone needs tending to, you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

Before Lady Brienne could object again, Sansa started walking through the hallway, forcing her to follow with the torch.

The closer they got to the Queen’s chambers, the stronger the light was. In the distance, she could hear grunts and pots crashing to the floor. Smoke was coming out of the room, she was certain because of the smell and the shadows of flames that were dancing on the barely lit hallway walls.

“Stay back!” she heard Jon shout and before she knew quite what she was doing, she was already running towards the chamber, fearing the worst.

“My lady …” Brienne yelled after her but Sansa paid it no mind. Jon was in there and there was fire … Fire, just as she had feared before.

When she finally burst into the room, the sight before her was hard to imagine. The silks draped around the queen’s bed were half aflame. The queen herself and her handmaiden were huddled in a corner, while Jon and Tyrion stood in front of them, fighting.

But what came at them were not men … they were … something else. A half rotten corpse was already jumping on Tyrion. For all his small stature, the Imp fought bravely, lifting up a shield and crushing it against the collection of bones over and over again while Ghost pulled at the dead flesh from behind. A horrible screech came out, as metal and teeth separated arms and body. The corpse still moved, restlessly on the ground until Tyrion pulled one of the sheets from the bed and drowned it in fire.

Jon was fighting one of the creatures as well, although this one was dressed in armor and did not look as ghastly. She remembered that armor … A leather studded doublet over a brownish red shirt. Sansa shook with horror as she realized … _Pod! It’s Pod!_ Sweet, gentle Pod, the dead boy she had washed and clothed only hours before, was hurdling towards Jon, screaming and foaming blackened blood at the mouth.

Sansa took a step back on shaking feet and was certain she was going to collapse before something grabbed a hold of her arm. It burnt but it was a cold sort of burn like frostbite, not flame. When she looked up … something was standing in front of her, its frozen fingers digging into her wrist. It was like nothing Sansa had ever seen. Its skin looked like frozen glass, his lips all but gone in an array of grooves and craters digging deep into its skin. She meant to pull her hand away but the grip was iron and the inhuman blue eyes bore deep into her as it pulled her closer.

It was Ghost who saved her in the end, jumping in between her and the monster. She was pushed outside the door and fell to the ground. The direwolf’s teeth teared at the creature, pinning it down with his great paws. But then he whelped in pain retreating quickly, when the monster shoved a sharp piece of ice in his thigh, red blood seeping through the white furs.

“Ghost!” she screamed, scrambling to her feet. _Not him too!_

“My lady!” Brienne flew past her, throwing herself on the monster who lifted its ice sword to attack her. Her knight’s Valyrian steel clashed against it with one swing, breaking it into a thousand tiny pieces.

“Sansa!” she heard Jon calling to her, dimly. “Get out of here!” She wanted to but she couldn’t. Fear had frozen her in place as her eyes moved swiftly from Jon back to Brienne who wrestled on the floor with the great beast.

Finally, she managed to pin him down between her thighs and shoved her sword in his gut. The monster gave out a hard pitched yell that had Sansa covering her ears, before his skin turned to true ice and cracks ran down the length of his body, breaking it apart while Ghost growled over the remains, sharp teeth exposed.

Only Pod remained as Jon pushed him towards the fiery bed. He hissed and screeched, trying to claw his way towards him. Yet Jon hesitated. She could see the sweat building up on his face and neck, the slight tremble in his sword arm, the muscles of his jaw clenching and unclenching.

_I saw them fall, breathing like the rest of us. And I saw them rise, like the rest of them_ , he had told her when he returned from Dragonstone. She didn’t know what he meant then … She had accused him of being too focused on the Night King and his armies but she had never truly understood why until just then. It was one thing to kill dead things or enemies. It was another to kill men that you had once called friends.

“My lord!” Brienne screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t! He’s a good lad! He’s always been a good lad …” She wept uncontrollably, her body shaking as she begged over and over for Jon not to kill him.

Still trembling, Sansa went to her then. “It’s all right, Brienne,” she said, wrapping her arms around her and holding her tight. “It’s all right. This isn’t Pod … It’s not Pod.”

Jon looked at her for a moment and Sansa nodded, wanting him to know she understood. His eyes hardened once again as he drove his sword through Pod’s chest. The body gave out a gut wrenching sound that had Brienne wailing. Sansa tightened her grip on her and rocked back and forth, trying to sooth her.

Jon spared her one more look before turning to the Dragon Queen, still curled up in the corner of the chamber. “Are you well?” he asked and the worry in his voice had Sansa’s stomach twisting painfully.

“You are unhurt?” he said, falling to his knees next to her and pulling her close.

The queen looked up at him and her shaking fingers traced the line of his cheek. “When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East,” she whispered breathlessly, before burring her face in Jon’s chest.

The tenderness with which Jon held her, his fingers running through her silver hair, made Sansa want to scream out in pain and she turned her face away from the sight.

***

The image was still seared in her brain hours later, as she squinted over military tomes in her solar. Ghost was at her side, at least, his injuries needing only minor tending. From time to time he brought his muzzle over her burnt wrist pushing at the bindings and licking.

“Ghost,” she said gently, patting the direwolf on the head, “stop that. You’ll ruin the bindings. I told you Maester Wolken said it will be fine.” He had applied ointment and recommended soaking the skin in warm water twice a day, saying that it was as normal as any frostbite would be.

“He worries for you,” Gilly said, lighting up the last of the candles. By Sansa’s calculations, it should be half way through the morning but the sun had not risen that day. _The Long Night_ … The thought made her shiver and she wrapped her shawl tighter around herself.

“What are you readin’?” Gilly asked, coming closer to her desk.

Sansa smiled and pointed to the chair in front of her. “I’m trying to see how a proper supply chain can be organized in winter. From what Tormund said, the Karstarks don’t have much in the way of food at the castle.”

“Oh,” Gilly said, sitting down. She was a pretty girl. Unlike the bulging forehead, crooked nosed wildlings Septa Mordane had told her about when she was little. Her skin was white as snow, smooth and unblemished and she had the loveliest doe eyes, sparkling brown, lively and inquisitive. Her chestnut hair was pretty too, now that Sansa had made her wash it more regularly and taught her how to braid it. She had given her some of her dresses as well, tired of the Northern ladies gawking at the poor girl dressed in her wildling furs. The brown and russet wools suited her and Sansa made a note to knit some gloves and a hat for her in the same colors.

“I could help you if you wan’,” she offered and quickly added: “I can read. I was the one that found the journal … the … you know …”

Sansa nodded. “I have three very large and boring books to get through.” She picked up one of them and handed it to her. “You can have this one.”

“You never don’ it before? The … what you call it?”

“Organize a supply chain?” Sansa sighed and shook her head. “No … there were no wars when I was growing up and my Septa was far more interested in teaching me how to sit up straight and curtsy than how to handle such matters.”

Gilly’s brow scrunched strangely. “Someone taught you to sit?”

Sansa laughed, her eyes drifting back to the book. “I supposed it’s odd now that I think about it.”

As they shuffled through the pages, the noises from outside slowly creeped in as people began moving around the court yard, filling carts with weaponry and armor. Steel clinked and wheels cracked as oxen began dragging their load through the gates, the first of the soldiers making ready to leave.

Sansa sighed. The queen’s men were still not ready. The queen herself was locked in her new chamber, keeping council with Ser Jorah, her most trusted advisor. It was clear that her resolve was vacillating but Sansa did not know what had transpired. And Jon had not come to seek her advice.

She knew that no matter the queen’s decision, Jon would go to Karhold and the thought frightened her.  She should make ready to go outside and see them off and yet she sat firmly at her desk, turning the pages, trying to postpone the moment where she would have to wave Jon off for a second time.

“They’ be gone soon,” Gilly said, standing up and looking outside the window. “I told Sam not to go. He’s no coward bu’ he’s not one for battle neither.” Gilly swallowed back her tears and Sansa couldn’t help but commiserate.

Jon was made for battle, no matter how much he disliked it but it did not make it easier to have him go. She shook her head and squinted again over the pages. It was not her place to fret over such matters. That was the obligation of a wife, not a sister and Sansa was neither.

The image of Jon comforting the Dragon Queen came at her again, his fingers running through her hair until Sansa’s knuckles turned white from the tight grip she had on her leather bound book. _He does it because he has to_ , she told herself. But did he truly have to hold her so close, rest his chin against her forehead, his arm at the small of her back?

When the soft knock at the door came, her eyes darted towards the sound immediately. Was it time already? Was he coming to see her one last time?

The door opened and Sam wheeled Bran into the room. Sansa smiled at them, a faint sigh of regret escaping her lips.

She steadied herself immediately, her smile widening. She was happy, after all, that Bran had had someone to help and keep him company all these moons. He didn’t take too kindly to her constant concern. She supposed he was too grown now to like having his sister babying him as she did when he was little. She would have to try to be less fussy now that Sam was leaving.

They were both wearing heavy furs and gloves. “Are you going to the Godswood?” she asked.

“No,” Bran said. “We have come to say farewell.”

Bran’s calm demeanor and the simple way in which he spoke sent a jolt through Sansa’s body that had her stand up from her chair. “What do you mean?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

“We’re going to Karhold, with Jon,” he said. “We have to leave now with the oxen carts since Sam can’t carry me through the snows.”

He spoke as if there was a possibility that Sam could carry him through the snows but was just being fastidious. _He’s just a boy_ , Sansa thought. “Absolutely not! I forbid it!”

She came closer and knelt in front of him, taking his hand, her voice softening. If her care was unwanted, her giving him orders would be even worse. “You … you can’t go to war, Bran. You’re needed here.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, in the same monotone that was beginning to drive her mad.

“You are a child, not a warrior!”

“I’m not a child, Sansa. Not anymore. I am the Three …”

“The Three Eyed Raven,” she repeated, still not understanding what that meant. “So you’ve said. You can be the Three Eyed Raven from here.”

He pulled his hand away and stared at her with steely resolve. “No, I cannot.”

“What does Jon have to say about this?” _Jon won’t let him go. He’ll stop him._ “Have you even told him?”

“We’ve spoken this morning. He understands that I must come with him.”

A withering anger grabbed hold of her then and she stood up. “We’ll see about that,” she said and ran out of the room.

It was not long after that She found him standing near the smithy, in the court yard. She hurried her steps towards him, intent on unleashing all her righteous rage but she never reached him in time.

Before she could get to Jon, Theon was tapping him on the shoulder. A few words were exchanged, although Sansa could not hear them and she could see Jon’s whole frame tensing up, his fists clenching and unclenching before he threw himself on Theon.

Her betrothed never stood a chance to fight back. Jon pushed him to the ground, pinning him in place with the weight of his body while his fists crashed into Theon’s cheeks over and over again.

“Jon!” she screamed, running towards them. “Stop it!”

He looked up at her, as if in a daze, his arms stilling while Theon moaned beneath him.

“Have you gone mad?” She pushed him off and he fell in the snow, his eyes wide and horrified as he continued to look at her, mumbling.

Sansa reached down for Theon, cupping his cheek. His whole face was covered in blood, his nose almost certainly broken as well as his lip. “Can you stand up?” she asked. Theon nodded and she helped him on his feet. “We need to get you to the infirmary.”

“Sansa, I’m sorry …” Jon said, coming closer to her.

She pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him away with all her strength. He stumbled backwards, making no effort to stop her.

“First you take Bran away from me. And now you almost kill Theon,” she yelled at him. “What is wrong with you?”

He breathed hard, eyes dazed, his nostrils inflamed. “I … I told Bran he should stay but he wouldn’t listen. I’ll take care of him, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” she screamed, as cold tears ran down her face.

She turned around and pulled Theon’s arm over her shoulder, helping him walk.

“Let … Let me help you,” Jon said, running towards her.

She turned to him one last time, anger burning her. “No! I’ve had enough of your brutish behavior!”

Her words cut through the air so sharp that they stung on her tongue long after she had spoken them and Jon’s whole face turned hard and cold.

She left him there in the snows, already feeling the regret seeping through her bones but unable to turn back.

***

Torches flickered, casting dancing flames upon the stained glass windows of the Winterfell Sept. Colors mixed dropping pools of red and gold upon the beds lined in rows along the length of the walls. Men grunted and shifted under the covers, some of their wounds still seeping blood through the fresh bandages.

It was eerily quiet in here, unlike the court yard, and Arya walked slowly, her footsteps as quiet as a cat on the prowl. Outside, the silent sisters were readying the bodies for burning. Jon had insisted on it after the battle even though the Northern Lords balked at the idea.

She had lingered for a time with them, washing the dead and rubbing oils into the skin. She had learned to do a good enough job of that with the Faceless Men and people would expect her to take part, after her supposed stay with the Silent Sisters of the Faith.

They barely looked at her as she slipped into the Sept, too intent on their work and far too removed from the world to notice the comings and goings of people. Inside, the thick and smoky smell of incenses mingled with the smell of burnt flesh and blood into a heady mix that had Arya alternating between taking the odor in more deeply and wrenching.

She did neither as she approached the altar. In front of her the greatest of the stained glass windows stretched from foundation to roof, a seven pointed star lined in gold presiding over the entire darkened room.  She turned, looking at all of her mother’s gods, each carved from oak and placed in their own enclaves. First came the Father, then the Mother and the Maiden. On the other side the Warrior with his sword and the Smith with his hammer. But it was the Stranger whom her eyes settled on, tucked away in the last of the enclaves, in the darkest corner of the altar. His face was covered by a heavy hood, shielding the eyes of men from his terrible visage. In his hands he carried a whitewashed skull that glimmered in the yellow light.

The statue used to frighten her when she was a child and the skull most of all had her running from her mother’s hand when she took Sansa and her into the Sept. It still unsettled her now, despite everything. The hallow eyes of the skull seemed to dig into her, clawing at her as if wanting to make one with her bones.

Still, she drew her Needle out from beneath her skirts. She turned and walked towards the last of the beds that had been placed next to the altar, a bit further apart than the rest.

The stained glass window directly above shone a bluish tint upon Beric Dondarrion’s face, making him look paler, his cheeks more drawn out. His shirt had been ripped open and he had a bandage wrapped around his chest and arm from the wounds he had received during the night’s battle. Other scars snaked his body, deep and terrible to behold. None worse than the one on his left shoulder, extending from the blade to his groin from where the Hound had cut him down.

She had meant to kill him quickly, before he had a chance to wake up. But she found the point of her sword tracing along his chest lightly, going upwards, and stopping just above his Adam’s apple. She pressed the tip a little deeper, rousing him from his sleep and he flicked his one good eye open.

“Remember me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, his voice a little faint. “I often prayed for your well-being, my lady.”

The words made her shiver and the steady, calm way in which he looked at her made her hesitate. To stiffen her resolve, she spoke instead: “I’ve prayed too. Every night, before I went to sleep, I would say your name and pray that I would meet you again.”

“And now we have.”

“Now we have,” she said, pushing the tip a bit further, drawing some blood and yet not quite managing to push it all the way. “It is a pity that your priest isn’t with us anymore. It seems you will not be joining us in battle.”

“All men must die,” he said, calmly. “I’ve done it more times than most. Make it quick.”

“As you wish,” she said, but still her sword lingered.  

“Beric!”

From behind her, Jon came at their side. Arya gave him a quick glance before withdrawing Needle and folding her hands at the back, as if nothing had happened. Jon’s eyes stayed on her for a moment and the sharpness of his glare dug deep, making Arya’s cheeks burn red.

“How are you feeling?” Jon asked Beric. “Have you properly been tended to?”

“I have,” he said. “Will you be leaving soon? This damned Maester of yours says I’m to stay behind.”

“It’s for the best,” Jon said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “You need to rest. The war isn’t going anywhere.”

“I pray to the Lord of Light to give you strength. You’re going to need it,” Beric lifted his hand and Jon shook it, making Arya grit her teeth.

“Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to my sister.”

Arya remained still, her mind still unwilling to give up her prey.

“Arya?” Jon said, forcing her to look at him. He pointed towards the exit and she drew a sharp breath.

“I will see you soon, Ser Beric,” she promised before turning and walking towards the door.

Once outside, she only managed to take a few steps before Jon caught up with her and pulled her back. By now the Silent Sisters had finished their work and they were alone. Save for the Gods, she supposed.

“What were you doing in there?” he demanded to know.

Arya turned her face still, as she had been taught to do by the game of faces and looked at Jon as innocently as could be. “Nothing. I was just saying my farewells.”

 “Why do you want to kill him? Is he on your list?”

Arya’s eyes grew big and her heart began racing. “Who told you about that?”

“Bran.”

“Bran should learn how to keep his mouth shut. And you should pick your friends more carefully. Beric Dondarrion sold Gendry to the Red Witch. He didn’t care what she did to him, as long as he got his gold!”

Jon shook his head and sighed. “That was in the past, Arya. Gendry’s forgiven him for that.”

“Gendry is an idiot then! And so are you! He deserves to die and I …”

Jon caught her by the shoulders, shaking her. “You need to stop this! This is not who you are!” His pupils were dilated and his voice came out horse and strained. “You have to promise me to stop this. I don’t want you going around killing people.”

“It would be hard to promise that seeing as we’re about to go to war.”

“You’re not coming to Karhold,” he said and Arya’s guts twisted, tears already stinging her eyes and she pushed his hands away. _Horse Face … Weasel … No one …_

“You don’t want me!” she screamed. “All this time, I thought that even if the rest of them wouldn’t want me, you would! That no matter what, you’d still love me!”

He pulled her back, his arms wrapping around her. He kept her tightly pressed there for a time, until she could feel the anger flying off of her and she embraced him. “Little sister …,” he said affectionately. “It doesn’t matter what you do, I will always love you. I need you to stay here and do what I can’t,” he finally said.

“Why? The queen and her men aren’t coming. Everyone says so. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

He drew a sharp breath and let go of her, leaning over and speaking in a hushed tone. Standing so close to him, Arya could see the deep circles under his eyes and the slackness in his shoulders. His voice came out shaking: “If I fall, the Northern Lords will try to crown Sansa as queen.”

_You’re not going to die,_ she wanted to say but couldn’t bring herself even to speak of it. “Hard to do that when they’ll be off fighting with you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“They’re not coming to Karhold. They’re staying here. Someone needs to ensure the safety of Winterfell while I’m away. The Dothraki and the Unsullied will serve their purpose better.”

“But the Queen wants to march South,” Arya said.

“Who told you that?”

“I heard her handmaiden talking to one of the Unsullied. Grey Worm was his name, I think.”

He smiled. “Daenerys and her armies are marching today. I’ll make sure of it.”

There was a steely resolve in his eyes and Arya couldn’t help but grin. “You have a plan.”

Jon nodded. “The North will never accept Daenerys as queen. If they are going to stand a chance against her, they could do with a smaller force and one less dragon … or two.”

“You’re going to throw the Dothraki and the Unsullied into the thick of the fight to dwindle their numbers,” Arya said. “It’s a good plan. It’s what Robb would have done.”

His eyes turned sad at the mention of their brother. “I wish he was here,” he said. “He’d be better at it than me.”

“You’re doing fine,” Arya said, with complete certainty. “And I can help you. I’ve learned so many things, Jon. From the Hound and the Faceless Men. I could …”

 “I need you to stay here and protect Sansa.”

Arya huffed at the idea. “Why me? Why can’t Brienne do it or her _betrothed_ , Theon.”

“Because I don’t trust anyone else. We’re a pack, remember?” he said, his words forcing her to keep quiet. “The Northern Lords will push and pull at you two and I need you to stay strong. I also need you to promise me you’ll stop using the faces.”

“Why should I?” she whined. “They’ve served me well enough so far.”

He grabbed hold of her shoulders again and stared right at her. “You are not a Faceless Man. You are not No One. You are Arya Stark of Winterfell and the Starks don’t hide under other men’s faces to fight their enemies. Promise me! No more faces and no more lists!”

_I am Arya Stark of Winterfell_ , she had said to Jaqen H’ghar. Jon was right and her chin wobbled slightly. This was not who she was. Or, at least, it was not who she wanted to be. “I promise.”

***

Eavesdropping had never been a task that Tyrion developed to its full potential. He had always known, of course, that all castles, large and small, and the Red Keep, above all else, had eyes and ears imbedded into every crook and cranny. It was the way of the court, after all. The servants watched the courtiers. The courtiers watched the members of the small council.  The Small council watched the King. The King watched his Hand and Varys’ little birds watched them all.

But he had always thought it a menial task. The sort of thing you have lesser men do for you and yet now he found himself doing more and more of it, trying to decipher the next movements of the increasingly opaque court of Winterfell. _Lesser man indeed._

Standing outside the queen’s new chambers, peaking through the slightly opened door, brought back images of his childhood when he used to spy on Cersei. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that’s when he had been put off by the whole thing since one of his escapades had resulted in seeing his brother and sister go at each other like dogs in heat. He had not much liked the sight, although his younger self could not help but rejoice at the shameful secret he had uncovered about his seemingly perfect siblings.

He should be thankful, he supposed, that Daenerys and Jon Snow were, at least, not engaged in activities best resolved with the door firmly bolted. Instead, the Northern bastard was sitting on the edge of the bed holding the queen’s hand, in a quite innocent fashion.

Daenerys had been beside herself after the wight attack and she had packed and unpacked her things several times all through the night, the chests still hanging open, scattered across the floor, waiting for her to decide whether she was going to save the world or her throne.

That’s when her Warden had come to her, knuckles still bruised by his fight with Theon Greyjoy earlier, blood splattered on his doublet. It irked Tyrion that he did not know the reason for the fight but he supposed if anyone could drive a man to violence it would be the arrogant former Stark hostage. Perhaps he had made a choice remark about Jon’s sisters, Tyrion guessed. He still remembered the Northerner’s tensed expression when he had mentioned Sansa Stark on Dragonstone. He had meant it as a joke, of course but Jon Snow’s humor was not one of his most important qualities.

No, it was the blood and the heroism, the roughened expression on his handsome face that won him support and that was currently making Daenerys almost swoon as a young girl before her first flowering. For all her fire and pride, strong, violent men had always been her weakness.

“Have you decided?” Jon asked her softly, taking her hand.

Daenerys shook her head. “You must understand. The Seven Kingdoms were forged by my ancestors and I am the last of the dragons. I have a duty to reclaim it … for the sake of the realm, I have a duty. I cannot forget that nor can I forget that an army of dead men is marching on us.”

There was tension in Jon’s jaw, his eyes flashed with anger for a moment before turning warm once more but he doubted Daenerys saw it. _We are all fools when we are in love …_

“And you are certain that Ser Jorah’s information is good?”

“He assured me that it was. His old comrade said that they were preparing to march through the Riverlands.”

 “Wasn’t the Golden Company started by Blackfyre rebels? I believe it is still customary for Westerosi exiles to join their ranks.”

“It is,” Daenerys said. “That is how Ser Jorah joined them. What made you think of it?”

“Their commander, from what I understand, is Jon Connington. I’m sure you know who that is … ”

Daenerys looked flustered for a moment, her cheeks turning pink. “I … I don’t …”

“He was your brother’s closest friend. He fought with him during the Rebellion. Who do you think Jon Connington would much rather fight for? The wife of the man who killed his best friend and forced him to flee his country? Or the sister of his late prince?”

Tyrion closed his eyes. Varys had been right, after all. Jon Snow was far better than Tyrion had given him credit for. He led her by the hand towards where he needed her and made himself sound honorable and kind doing it.

“You think he could be persuaded to join us against Cersei?”

Jon nodded. “If he was approached in the right way, I think he would.”

Daenerys seemed to ponder his words for a moment and Tyrion could almost laugh at Jon’s patience is letting her come to the only conclusion he had left open to her. _Almost_ … It had been him that had given Jon the idea after all. Ideas, it seemed, he would take from him but offer nothing in return.

“Ser Jorah could speak to him,” Daenerys said. “They were brothers in arms, after all.”

Jon smiled and brought her hand up to kiss it lightly. “I suppose this is farewell then.”

His eyes traveled up and down her body before he stood up to leave.

“You’re still going?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she tried and failed to control her emotions.

“I must,” he said. “Survivors from the Night’s Watch and the Wildling camp are still at Karhold. I have to try and help them.”

“But you said the Northern Lords still refuse to come with you.”

“They are. We’ve gathered troops from around Winterfell and Winter Town. We will manage.”

As he took one more step away from her, Daenerys stood up, loathing to see him go. _Keep your dragon close_ , Tyrion had told him. What Jon Snow did instead was forcing the dragon to follow him.

“But what if Ser Jorah fails to convince this Jon Connington? Then the Golden Company will march on Winterfell to take the castle and capture your sister.”

Jon sighed. “I pray that he does not fail. If he does ….” His voice cracked for a moment and he dropped his eyes, as if in shame.

“What?” Daenerys asked, breathlessly coming at his side and taking his hand into her own. Her eyes searched his face and when he raised his to meet them, whatever she saw made her face light up in a bright smile that would have withered the sun.

“If he does, I pray that you have enough time to escape. The thought of you in danger will give me no rest.”

She sighed with longing and brought her hand up to caress his cheek. “My brave warrior!” she said, kissing him gently. “I will not escape for I won’t be here. I will be fighting at your side.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asked, his voice strained.

“After what you did last night, how could I do otherwise?”

He smiled at her just then, with such tenderness that, if Tyrion had been a more foolish man, he would have believed it honest. He embraced her too, pressing her against himself and murmuring the words of gratitude the queen so desperately needed. “Thank you, Daenerys!”

_Pod_ … _You have outdone yourself again_ , Tyrion thought. The unsung hero of the Blackwater who had saved his life, the delight of the whores in King’s Landing, would now be the unknown martyr upon whose sacrifice men would save the world. A streak of sentimentality struck Tyrion but it was soon drowned by the misery of finding himself on the wrong side of that particular glorious song.

He stepped away from the door and wandered through the hallway towards his chamber. Part of him was glad Jon had managed to convince Daenerys to march to Karhold. It was the right thing to do, after all. But the selfish part boiled with anger at having been left out and forgotten. The queen had not uttered one word of gratitude to him. She had forgotten that Jon Snow had not faced the dead men and saved her life alone. Tyrion had fought alongside him.

He wondered, too, if the queen would even notice that he was marching to his certain death at Karhold or if she would be far too preoccupied with the dashing figure Jon Snow struck upon his valiant steed.

When he made it back to his chambers, his movements lead him straight to the table where his trusted Dornish red lay. Bitterness creeped through him, as he poured the wine and drank it in one go. All his life he had thought that hatred was the worst punishment the world had inflicted on him. But it was not … It was irrelevancy that was the true enemy.

Then his eyes fell upon the cyvasse board, sill laid out as it had been the night before. With dismay, he looked at his own movements on the board, his hidden flanks slowly creeping in towards Jon’s king.

In his haste to finish the game, he had failed to see the other side of the board, where his own onyx dragon was surrounded on all sides, face to face with Jon’s jade beast and steps away from Tyrion’s king. _Death in three_ , he thought, out of reflex more than anything else. The game was over and Tyrion had lost.

***

The chamber still smelt of smoke and ashes. Two of the silks hanged limply on the bedposts, blackened by the fires, holes torn into the fabric. All around her, pieces of pottery and other objects laid on the floor, scattered, their sharp edges reminding her of the steel blades that had been swung there only hours before.

Her eyes rested on the place where the White Walker had fallen. The pieces of ice had melted slowly, leaving behind only water, as simple and benign as any other puddle. The burn on her wrist, however, still burned and she rubbed at the bindings, reminded of the freezing hands that had gripped her.

How many monsters where there? How many of them would the soldiers face at Karhold? The queen’s men were starting to assemble in the court yard. Somehow Jon had convinced her to go with him, after all. After his brave stand against the wights, gratitude or love had made the queen risk it all. _Such a pretty song,_ she thought bitterly.

Moments passed and she lingered in the chamber that had seen the worst of her horrors come to life. She did not know what frightened her more now: Ramsay, the White Walker, Jon amidst the flames?

_Jon holding her_ , she realized. Among her horrors, that was the worst. No matter how she tried to justify it in her mind, the image came at her over and over again, refusing to give her peace.

_He cares for her_. _No matter what he says, he cares._ The thought twisted inside of her, as it had done from the first moment Jon had written to say he was bringing her there. As much as she had tried to ignore it, as much as she had fought with him over politics and strategy, that was the true source of her bitterness.

Soon she would have to don her mask of duty once more. She would have to go down to see them off. She was the Lady of Winterfell, after all. But not yet … Why should she hurry? Why should she smile and wish them well when all she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and cry herself to sleep?

“My lady …”

The sound of Brienne’s voice startled her out of her reverie and she had to wipe at her cheeks before turning to look at her. The mask fell into place quickly enough: serene, composed, a small smile on her face. So easy and so very empty …

Brienne walked into the room, in full armor, her hand firmly set upon the hilt of her sword and Sansa knew what she was going to say before she even began speaking. She was going to leave her as well.

“I must ask a favor of you, my lady,” Brienne said, somewhat flustered.

“You want to go to Karhold.”

Brienne nodded, shame still gripping her. “I would not leave you, my lady. Not for the world. And if you do not want to me to go, I will not!”

“You want to avenge Podrick,” Sansa said.

Brienne’s eyes filled with pain at the sound of the name. “I screamed at him … Before the battle, he was scared and I snapped at him as I always did.”

The torment on Brienne’s face ravaged through Sansa. There was nothing more terrible than regretting your last words to someone. She could barely remember the last words she had spoken to her father before he was taken prisoner but she was sure they had not been kind.

“Podrick will be missed, Brienne,” she said. “Not just by you. By all of us. I once promised you that I would never ask you to do something that could dishonor you and I intend to keep that promise. You must go to Karhold. Avenge Podrick and, if you can, protect Jon and Bran as well. Keep them safe for me.”

Brienne bowed deeply to her, eyes filled with gratitude. “I will, my lady. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New!” she said in a strained voice.

With that her knight left her. Bran had as well, barely sparing her a glance as him and Sam were loaded onto the oxen carts. Only Arya and Ser Davos remained, at Jon’s instructions, although Sansa suspected her sister was not entirely happy with his decision.

Jon would be the last to go.

_I’ve had enough of your brutish behavior …_ She had been so angry with him when he attacked Theon. Angrier still when Theon told her that he had only wanted to promise Jon he would look after her. “He doesn’t think I’m worthy of you,” Theon has said, without a hint of bitterness. “He’s right.”

She had steeled herself against Jon’s judgement then, not wanting to think of how faithless he must imagine her for choosing as husband a man that had betrayed their family. In her shame, she had not even considered that those could be the last words he would ever hear from her.

The thought proved unbearable and she started running, hitching her skirts high as she flew past knotted hallways, down steep stairs until she burst out into the court yard. She nearly tripped thrice on her own skirts as she made her way through the slippery snows outside but she did not care. The court yard was ablaze with flaming braziers and men running back and forth, holding torches, shouting left and right while servants rushed with crate barrels filled with weapons. The last of the Dothraki were mounting their horses, ready to depart and she had to push and squeeze her way through, darting out of the way of mounted men and hooves that rushed past her in their haste to depart. Her eyes searched for him through the crowds but, in the darkness, it was hard to tell one man apart from another.

It was only when she looked out in the distance towards the North Gate that she spotted him. He hugged Arya one last time before mounting his horse.

“No!” she called out. “Wait!” But her voice was drowned by the dragons. High above, the two great beasts took to the sky screeching, their wings casting longs shadows upon the men beneath.

As fast as she ran, she could not reach him in time. Short of breath and shaking, she began to climb the stairs desperately, towards the battlements. The wind was harsher there, raging and pushing at her but she gripped the stone walls tightly, stopping in the middle of the passageway, her breath coming out fast and ragged. She looked on to the sea of men below as they began their long march.

Jon stood on his horse, to the side, watching his men ride off, the queen next to him. They exchanged a glance and Sansa strained her eyes trying to see their faces. A sharp pang of pain cut through her, thinking of all the days that they would now share, just the two of them, away from anything that could remind Jon of his home or his family … of her. The look lasted only a moment and then the queen rode off.

Sansa expected him to gallop after her but he remained in place. An eternity passed it seemed as Sansa squinted, trying to commit his frame to memory. Hard and dark, his hair and beard sprinkled with frozen snow, wrapped in the cloak she had made for him. The Blood of Winterfell he was. The North’s son off to save the world from the Long Night … Her King in the North.

Trotting down the steep battlement, Ghost came at her side. He nuzzled at her skirts and then the bindings on her right hand. Sansa patted him, behind the ears, her eyes still fixed on Jon.

When he finally turned and began to leave, her heart seemed to part from her chest. He was going! He was truly going! Away to war, where he could … No! She would not think about that. If she did, she would go mad.

Ghost lifted his muzzle into the air and a horsed howl came out, echoing through the air, long and desperate, making Sansa shiver.

Jon must have heard it because he stopped and turned around one last time. Sansa could only hope that he was able to see her in the distance and there, on the battlements, she whispered what she had failed to say to him. “Come back … I love you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Soooo sorry for the long wait on this! I got side-tracked by so many things in the month of January that it was hard finding the time to write. This is also a very internal sort of chapter so it was harder to write for me, for whatever reason. I hope to update quicker in the future but, just in case, please know that I'm still working on this. :)  
> Quick note: there is smut in this chapter. I repeat: there is smut! lol it's not all that graphic or anything but be forewarned. :)))  
> Thank you for all your comments and encouraging messages! they mean the world to me.

**Chapter 7**

Through the burnt holes in the roof and walls, the wind howled, blowing snow in and out of the dilapidated keep. The old woman was still laying in her bed, her white hair tightly braided at the back. Her lips and fingers were livid, her skin withered. She must have died a few hours before, after the last of the hearth ambers had been drowned by the wind.

Her eyes remained wide open. The torch light flickered on the glassy black orbs, in a ghastly dance that cut through Sansa’s body like knives. She had seen enough of death by now to be accustomed to it but those eyes still haunted her. They were so still and so empty that they chilled her far more than the bitter cold outside.

“How many more are there?”

“About fifty, my lady,” Ser Davos said, his voice cracking. “Most of ‘em old people and children.”

 _Children_ … Sansa swallowed back the lump in her throat and stood up from the bed. Between the White Walkers and the dragon’s fires, Winter Town had been left in shambles. Houses had crumbled to the ground and winter was getting harsher and harsher every day, as the sun hid away, leaving the earth beneath in darkness. Even the warmth of the Winterfell spring did not make much of a difference anymore.

Whatever strong men were left, Jon had taken with him to Karhold. The town now was filled with old people, women and children.  Families huddled together, as many as twenty people cramped into the keeps that still remained whole, sharing fire wood and what little food they had left.

As she walked through the streets, her head throbbed. By the side of the road, people stood in line stretching their hands, begging for food. Others were wailing holding the body of a loved one or rocking babes that could barely even cry over the hunger and cold. She wanted to turn away and not see their twisted and emaciated bodies. She wanted to run far enough not to hear their pleas. Instead she walked on, towards the town square. As she passed by, she forced herself to look at each and every one of them. _It’s what mother would have done_ …

As she stopped in the square, hundreds of people gathered around her. Every limb in her body trembled. The cold seeped into her bones and with it, fear as well. They looked at her with wide eyes, searching for any sign that she would help, that she could somehow stave off their demise.

An old terror ran through her, worrying that she would not be able to do what she had come there to do. _It would all be different if mother and father were alive_ , she thought. They would not doubt their decisions as Sansa was now. She had never been one for such things. Nor had she truly ever thought to find herself in a position where so many depended on her. That would have been Robb’s duty. He was the heir to Winterfell. _I can’t do this_.

“M’lady, what is to become o’ us?” a small, frail woman asked her. Her thin, spindly arm was wrapped tightly around a little boy, no older than Rickon had been when she left Winterfell. They were dressed in rags and shivered horribly as the night wind blew past them. The boy had an old crust of bread that he bit into slowly, chewing on it over and over again, as if to trick himself there was more to it than it was.

“We’re starvin’, m’lady!” a man shouted from the crowd, followed by a dozen more who joined him.

Ser Davos was standing beside her and she looked at him for a moment. The man smiled encouragingly and waited for her to speak. She gathered what strength she had, clearing her voice.

“My father used to say that in winter we must protect ourselves. Look after one another,” she said, her breath coming out frozen and in quick succession. “Anyone who is ailing or whose home has been ravaged by the battle, is welcome at Winterfell. For the rest, you will be given fire kindle from the castle’s supplies once a week and a hot meal every day.”

She could hear the gasps of relief from the crowd and she smiled, feeling a slight sense of hope for the first time. She wavered still before speaking. “In return I ask for your help. There is much work to be done in order to support the men that are now fighting at Karhold.”

The crowd before her remained silent. They looked at her, some gripping their children tighter as if fearing she would take them away. An old man with brittle white hair and hallow cheeks grimaced at her words. “But m’lady …. All the young men have already gone with your lord brother. We’re but old folk here …”

“Have no fear. I am not asking you to fight. There are other ways to help. Winter is bitter and cold for all of us. Our king and his men … they all need to keep warm and be fed while they fight. There are sheep to shear, yarn to spin, knitting to be done. Supply trains will leave Winterfell regularly and the food will need to be properly prepared and loaded.”

One of the women closest to her spit on the ground in disgust. “You mean work for those savages that destroyed our town and slaughtered us. Put clothes o’ their backs and food in their bellies”

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, tightening her fists. The great lords had been of a similar opinion when she had tried to enlist their help. The Dothraki had shattered whatever little good will the people of the North had for the armies that settled in their keeps and ate their food.

“Bu’ it isn’t just the Dothraki that are out there, is it?” Ser Davos said. “Your own kin is fightin’ too. Ya’ want them to starve to death or die from the cold?”

“Aye. They’re out there. Because her ladyship’s brother took ‘em,” the woman said. “Bu’ our boys are strong. They’ll find their way home. And I’ll freeze to death before I help feed them monsters.”

As more voices joined her, Sansa grit her teeth, her heart beating out of her chest. How would she ever keep Jon and his men alive if she couldn’t find anyone willing to help? The thought of failing terrified her and in her terror she reached for the bitter steel that she had armored herself in more often than she liked.

“The dead are coming for us all. You have seen them now. You know what they are and what they will do,” she said. “ _Our king_ and his army are the only thing standing between us and the White Walkers.”

When mumbles of disagreement still arose, her voice came out hard and cold, silencing them. “Winterfell’s gates are opened to anyone who is willing to work to defeat the enemy. The rest of you are free to stay here and freeze.”

As the last words came out, Sansa turned around and began walking quickly. She feared that if she stayed for one moment longer and see those tired, weak faces, her resolve would crumble. The angry voices and the cries accompanied her all the way to Winterfell but she hardened her heart against them and kept on going.

“It’s a fair offer, my lady,” Ser Davos said, when they reached the castle. “They’ll come to see the sense of it.”

She could only hope that he was right. But as hours dragged by, she began to lose her nerve and she wondered what she would do if they did not accept her terms. Would she truly be willing to let all those people … those children freeze out in the cold, knowing she could help? She had hardened herself, it was true. Built up her armor, plate by plate, but could she truly be that heartless?

The thought frightened her but as she wandered around the court yard counting grain sacks, her will did not bend. The thought of Jon at Karhold, depending on her for what little she could send, made her firm. She tried to chase the thought of him away, but it lingered … A full moon had passed since he had left and there had not been any word from him.

Her mind had grown tired and slack as it circled back to him over and over again, his memory never far enough for comfort. He was an ever present shadow, looming over her days and nights. His warm arms wrapped around her that last time in the Godswood, his back as he rode off into the darkness. They played in quick succession, over and over again, offering relief and then despair just as quickly.

The worst of it was when worry gripped her and she conjured up the most terrible of sights. _Why has he not sent word?_ Even now the image of him laid in the snows, frozen eyes starring without seeing, just as the woman in Winter Town, was all she could see and she had to stop for a moment, breathing heavily to make it stop.

By the time the first Winter Town villagers began arriving at the gates, Sansa did not know if it was a greater relief to be spared the terrible choice she would have needed to make or that with the arrival of so many, her mind was set to the task of finding appropriate accommodations and nourishment and be given a reprieve.

One of the long tables from the Great Hall was dragged out into the court yard and Sansa set up a food station. She began filling wooden bowls with a hearty broth of potatoes and turnips, as Arya handed out the bread and spoons, at the other end. Even Varys and the queen’s handmaiden had joined them, bringing out pelts for the children and the old to cover themselves with.

As she looked up, the line seemed to stretch endlessly towards the gates and despite some of the angry faces she could see among the crowd, she couldn’t help but smile. _We will look after one another_ , she thought. In time, they would see.

“Bless you, m’lady.” She looked up and recognized the face. It was the old man with the kind eyes that had spoken up in town. He smiled at her, revealing a mouth of gaping holes where teeth would have been. “And may the old Gods keep our king safe!”

“Thank you,” she said, warmth spreading through her at his gentle words. She handed him the bowl and gave his wrinkled hand a firm squeeze.

“You have a gentle heart, my lady.”

Varys’ forcefully melodic tone startled her, sending a shiver down her back. She turned to find him standing just behind her, arms folded in front of him, a placid smile plastered upon his face as always. _Gods, but he moves quietly!_

“But was it wise to invite so many within the castle walls?” he asked, as he came to her side and handed her one of the wooden bowls. “Particularly with our armies away fighting?”

Sansa sighed, weary of his games and riddles. He had been circling her ever since his queen had left, needling at her, prodding. And whenever he relented, the queen’s handmaiden, Missandei, would seek her out. No doubt, they had both been left behind for a purpose. They were to watch her and Arya, made sure they did as they were expected.

“Sometimes, it is not a matter of being wise,” she said, filling the bowl with broth and handing it to the next person in line. “But rather doing the right thing.”

“Doing the right thing at the wrong time got your father killed.”

The ladle fell out of Sansa’s hand and she turned to glare at him, her entire frame frozen under the onslaught of his words. “You should take your own advice, Lord Varys. A Southerner mentioning my father here, in the North, where he was so loved, is not wise.”

The spider gave an exaggerated bow. “Forgive me, Lady Stark. I did not mean to give offence. The regard in which Lord Stark was held is well known to all. And shared by those of us who knew him.”

Sansa gave him but a small, cold smile before turning her attention back to the pot of broth.

“I could not help but overhear the man who thanked you earlier,” he continued, handing her another bowl that she took without looking at him. “Despite Lord Jon bending the knee to our queen, it seems the people still see him as their king.”

Sansa drew a sharp breath, willing her hands to keep still. He would tire soon, she told herself. It was only a matter of time before he left her in peace if only she managed to keep her wits about her. “You must forgive their ignorance,” she said. “They are common people. Not versed in proper etiquette or politics. They do not care who is king or queen, as long as their keeps are whole and their families are safe.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, my lady,” he said. “As you said, your father inspired great devotion in the North. That devotion seems to have been extended to his son as well. I suppose our queen is lucky he is only a bastard. Had he been a true born …”

The bowl of broth slipped through her fingers as if it was covered in ice. Sansa felt her knees give way and she braced herself against the table.

“Are you all right, Lady Sansa?” the spider said. He put his hand on her shoulder and the touch was as hot on her skin as a red poker. She took a step back quickly, her vision still blurred.

“Yes …,” she said, her tongue swirling helplessly. “I … forgot my gloves.” She folded her arms in front of her, straitening her back and lifting her chin. She steadied herself against the trembles and gazed upon the line of people for a moment. “I will be right back.”

She waited long enough for the spider to give her a small nod, laced with an altogether unsettling smile, before leaving the court yard.

She scurried towards the keep, darting around the corner and finally collapsed on the muddy steps to the back entrance, her arm wrapped around her waist. The tight girdle dug into her flesh, making breathing even harder and she pulled at it, trying to loosen it.

It was no use. She took a gulp of air and then another, through her mouth and through her nose. Again and again ….

 _Had he been a true born_ … As her breath slowed, she realized she shouldn’t have left. If the spider had suspicions, her reaction would only confirm them. But collapsing over the pot of broth had seemed worse at the time. She pressed her cheek against the cold stone of the wall and closed her eyes, waiting for the trembles to subside so she could get up.

Perhaps it had only been a slip of the tongue, she considered for a moment. In his eyes, Jon’s bastard status perhaps made him vulnerable, less likely to hold the North for the queen. Even the Northern Lords had taken to whispering about it, when they thought no one was listening.

But no … Varys did not make mistakes. He would never say such a thing unless there was a reason behind it. But if he had suspicions, why did he not tell his queen? That was his role after all … The master of whispers … the spider and his little birds. And he had not said anything, had he? If the queen would have had an inkling of it, she would never have gone with Jon to Karhold. No … Varys had said nothing to her. Instead he had waited until she was gone to bring it up.

Slowly, Sansa stood up, running her hands over her skirts to dust off the dirt and snow. She pulled her gloves out of her pockets and slipped them on before walking back towards the court yard. If Varys wanted something from her, she would need to be prepared. And she needed to speak to Arya.

***

It took hours for all the people of Winter Town to be fed, for the injured and weak to be settled in and Sansa set to the task as best she could, focusing only on what was in front of her, even as Lord Varys watched her every move until his eyes seemed to burn holes in the back of her neck.

She finally retreated to the kitchens after everyone had had their supper. She had prepared a corner of the large space for her desk and papers. The kitchen walls had been whitewashed recently and there were large windows on two sides of the walls. It was meant to bring enough light in to allow the cook and servants to work until late into the night if need be but with the Long Night upon them, it had become the best lit space in the castle and that felt more and more like a luxury. All of the servants had gone to bed now so it was quiet which should have been a source of comfort. But it was the kind of quiet that made one dwell far too much on their own thoughts and that unsettled Sansa most of all.

 _Had he been a true born_ … The words rattled through her brain, as neatly arranged rows of figures danced before her eyes. She squinted, focusing back on the book of numbers containing the state of the Winterfell treasury. Her eyes felt heavy and dry. She rubbed at them and stretched in her seat, yawning.

Where was Arya? She had looked everywhere for her. In her chamber, all through dinner in the Great Hall. She had even gone to the armory and the Godswood but she could not find her. She had hoped her sister would come to the kitchens, as she did more and more often, to steal a piece of mutton and chat away with the maids and stable boys.

“You should get some rest,” Gilly said, from the other side of the desk, looking up from one of the military tomes Sansa had given her to read.

“I need to finish this,” she said. “The accounts have to be in good order. We will probably need quite a bit of gold soon.”

“I could help you with it, if you like, my lady” Missandei said, edging closer to her desk. “The queen would often entrust such matters to me when we were in Meereen.”

Sansa pulled the book closer to her. “I can manage. Thank you,” she said coldly and had to repress a sigh as the girl did not move, her eyes fixed upon the ledgers.

She had forgotten the queen’s handmaiden was there for a moment. She always seemed to be lurking in the corners as of late, interrupting the few moments of peace Sansa had, making it impossible for her to relax or enjoy even Gilly and little Sam’s company.

“You can help me,” Gilly said, standing up. Her eyes locked with Sansa’s for a moment and she winked quickly before turning to Missandei. “We need a supply train for the army and this book is heavy enough for two.”

“Of course,” Missandei said eagerly and allowed Gilly to steer her towards the fireplace where they sat down and started to raffle through the pages.

Bless Gilly and her good heart! Sansa exhaled in relief and she turned her attention back to the ledgers. Not that she was able to focus on the task. Her mind wandered far too often and her nerves were still on edge. She knew she would be unable to find rest that night if she did not speak to Arya.

Just as she began going over all the places where Arya could be hiding, the door burst open and her sister sprung into the room like a whirlwind. Sansa looked up and found her breathing heavily, covered in snow from head to toe, her cheeks and nose reddened from the cold outside.

“A scroll just arrived from Karhold!” she said, her voice barely able to hide her enthusiasm.

Sansa’s eyes grew large and her heart leaped out of her chest. But before she managed to open her mouth to speak, Missandei was already on her feet coming closer to Arya.

“How is the queen?” she asked, quickly.

Arya’s face turned cold in an instant. “It seems they all arrived safely. Jon,” she said, turning to Sansa. Before she could continue, the queen’s handmaiden interrupted her again.

“And the Unsullied? Are they … are they all well?”

 _Oh, who cares about the queen and her eunuchs!_ Sansa wanted to scream. _How is he? How is Jon?_ But she bit her lip, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm.

“They lost only a few men,” Arya said, in the same cold tone, before turning her back on Missandei and looking directly at Sansa. “Jon says they arrived just in time to stop the wights from pushing through the Karhold gates. They managed to push them back and get control of the port. He says,” Arya dropped her eyes to read from the scroll, “that Karhold ran out of firewood a fortnight before but he found a warm room for Bran and Sam is taking care of him. Oh …,” she burst out laughing. “And that those socks you knitted for him are coming in handy.” Arya finished breathlessly and looked up at her expecting a reaction.

Sansa’s eyes stung with unshed tears and her whole body trembled. She wanted to jump up and hug her sister for waiting hours on end for the ravens. She wanted to twirl around and dance and cry in relief. _He’s alive! He’s alive!_

Instead she gave out but a small smile and stood up. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” She spared her sister just a glance, just enough to see the disappointment on her face. It stung bitterly but as she looked at the way Missandei was measuring her carefully, she turned to close the ledger. “I should be going to bed. I suggest you do the same. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

She couldn’t get out of the kitchens fast enough. She rushed through the winding hallways, passing guards on the way and a few of the maids that were still up, carrying firewood to the occupied chambers. They were mere shadows, her vision blurred, their bows and greetings distant echoes, under the thudding in her ears.

She pushed her way into her chamber. Hidden away, where no one could see her, Sansa’s body relented and she crumbled to the floor, her back pressed against the door. She pressed her hands against her mouth, as she laughed. She did not imagine herself capable of such sweet relief anymore but it washed over her so fiercely that she felt as if her heart would burst.

“He’s alive,” she whispered, her voice strangled. “Thank the Gods!”

***

_She dreamed of him that night, cloaked and bearded as he was when he had left. The snow was falling gently in her dreams, big, soft snowflakes dancing all around them. She was in the court yard waiting for him this time. There were no dragons in her dream and no queens. No armies at all and no war. Just him walking towards her, lifting her up in his arms and pulling her close to him while the sun shone brightly above them, bathing them in warm light._

_He smelled of the woods and the snows, of campfire smoke and blue roses. He cupped her face as she had always wished someone might and pressed soft kisses on her cheeks and her eyelids, on the tip of her nose where a stray snowflake had landed and finally on her lips. She could feel the sweet pressure of his mouth on hers. She could taste him on her tongue as his own danced around it. She wondered where she had learned to do such a thing. No one had ever kissed her that way … But learned she must have for she pressed her body closer to his and wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers raking through his black curls desperately, trying to pull him closer and claim him as her own._

_When they parted, the court yard and the castle had fallen away and they were standing in the Godswood. All around them flames licked at root and stem, blazing, scorching the trees and melting the snows. The air was hot, falling on her cheeks, burning them and coming ever closer. Yet she felt no fear. Not when Jon was there._

_Behind them, steam rose from the black pool and the moss covered wall behind it caught aflame as he pulled her cloak down from her shoulders. He unlaced her dress and let it fall to the ground. Her shift and small clothes followed until she was standing in front of him, as naked as the day she was born. There were no scars to mar her body in her dream. No evil twist in her stomach to remind her of dirty hands on her, smelling of lavender and blood. She was clean and whole and warm._

_He smiled and his fingers twisted in her hair, pulling it over her shoulders, covering her breasts. His eyes glowed from the dancing flames, warm and brown and gentle as they fell upon her until they were all she could see. “Kissed by fire … Lucky,” he said._

_The flames cast their light upon their naked bodies and she took in the sight of him. Familiar and safe but also strangely new and exciting, making her tummy flutter, as her eyes roamed over all of him. Lean and strong, the muscles of his arms contracting as he pulled her closer. He was beautiful, her Jon, just as her septa had said her husband would be. She rested her hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating under the skin. She pressed her palm against it._

_He was home and she loved him … she loved him … And, in her dream, he loved her too._

_The flames rose higher and the Godswood cracked and crumbled all around them as his calloused fingers traced the line of her back, sending shivers down her spine. He ran his fingers down her stomach and then further down still. She could feel the anticipation building up inside of her, coiled and burning, her body inching closer, trembling and silently urging him to go on._

_His hand rested between her thighs and he touched her there. A pool of heat traveled from her core up to her cheeks, making her pant and sigh, as her body tensed. It was not fear that gripped her but something else ... Something that made her stiff and taunt like an archer’s bow, prepared to dart forward towards what she could not place._

_His fingers circled a tender spot inside of her, making her squirm and move, as her hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his smooth skin. She rested her head against his chest, as her hips swayed to their own rhythm under his fingers. On and on his fingers moved, invading every part of her until she could no longer see or hear anything, aside from his breath hitched alongside her own, when his head nestled in the crook of her neck._

_They drifted through the fire, down into the pool. The warm water lapped all around them as he pulled her to him. Above them, the wall burned with red and yellow flames and beneath the water, his manhood stirred between her thighs while she rutted against him, her soft sighs turning loud and urgent over the roaring of the fire._

_“Dance with me anon,” he said._

She woke up panting, sweat covering her skin despite the cold. The thick fur blanket was wrapped tightly between her thighs and, to her horror, she realized she was squirming, rubbing it against the spot between her legs, where she was slick and wet and burning.

She jumped up and pushed the furs away, her body trembling with horror and her cheeks flaming red with shame. She pulled her knees up, and, as her thighs rubbed against one another, it felt wet and sticky there as well.

Gods! What had gotten into her? Her Septa had told her that sometimes loose women had urges. That they would indulge in them in secret, under the cover of the night. But the Gods saw them and judged them for it, she had said. Ladies were not supposed to …

She shook her head, unable to even contemplate what she had done. She rose from the bed and through the darkness, she stumbled. The stone was freezing cold under her bare feet but she ran to the water basin, her trembling hands grabbing the cloth hanging over the edge. She sloshed it in the water and lifted her shift.

It felt cold and rough against the skin of her thighs but she wiped at them and in between her legs. She must have gone mad. Truly mad. All that had happened to her, all that Ramsay had done … It was playing tricks on her mind, causing her to lose reason and behave like one of those whores Littlefinger kept in his brothels.

And yet the dream had been so sweet and it had felt so good … _No! Not good! Evil! And shameful! Remember who you are, Sansa Stark!_ she reprimanded herself. She had been in love before after all. And she had behaved properly then. It could not be that …

She tried to conjure up the image of Loras Tyrell from the pits where she had abandoned him long ago. Only a sad, misty image of blond, pretty curls and a disinterested smile came forth. She tried to picture herself sitting next to him as she had done then, in a lush, rose garden with puppies in their laps. Or walking down a sun bathed trail, holding hands. Once she had even imagined Loras kissing her behind a tree in the High Garden court yards and felt quite reckless in doing so. It had been a simple kiss, his lips barely brushing against her own the way she thought lords kissed their ladies. Not the way Margaery had whispered to her one day by the heart tree in the Red Keep. And yet that was exactly how Jon had kissed her in her dream …

Her mind came back to him of its own accord, despite her efforts and all thoughts of puppies and pretty, blond curls evaporated as if they had not been there at all. She remembered his naked body, the smooth, white skin of his chest, his strong arms. It had looked so familiar, so real. But she had not seen Jon naked … Except ... _Gods! Even then?_

She must have been no more than eleven then. Jeyne Poole had told her that her brothers and some of the stable boys would go to the Godswood sometimes and bathe in the hot pools. Somehow she had managed to convince her to sneak up and watch them. Sansa had felt wicked and wild as she and Jeyne stalked through the trees, edging closer to the pools where the ten or so boys laughed and pushed at each other.

They watched in hushed wonderment as they took off their clothes and jumped into the water. Jeyne had been in love with Robb ever since she was a babe and she looked at him with wide, hungry eyes. But it was Jon Sansa fixated on. He was leaner than Robb. Shorter too. But it was something about the way the water trickled down from his thick, black curls to his bare chest as he stood up from the pools that had her transfixed. His skin glowed in the sunlight and prickled at the contact with the cold air and, for a moment, Sansa had been tempted to jump from her hiding spot and hand him his shirt so he wouldn’t be cold. When he had gotten out, her cheeks turned flaming red and her eyes drifted downwards onto the patch of black hair and the length of his manhood.

When she was in her cups, Septa Mordane would sometimes talk about a man’s staff and how that was used to bring babes into the world but she had never seen one before then. She found herself thinking that it was pretty, like a fruit hanging from a tree in the glass gardens.

That’s when Arya had caught them, of course, and ruined everything, as she often did. She started laughing and screaming, letting the boys know they were there. Sansa could still remember Robb howling with laughter and Jon looking down, as if he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. She remembered the withering shame that gripped her and how she had run off crying from the Godswood, determined never to think about it again.

It must have been that memory she had conjured up in her dream. Jon had not had any scars in her dream and she knew they must be there, from those horrible knives that his Night Watch brothers had stabbed him with. There was one scar just over his heart from where that boy had hurt him. For a moment she imagined how sweet it would be to kiss that scar and try to ease the pain of it for him. She imagined the rugged, coarse feel of it and how his chest would move beneath her mouth. Her lips tingled at the thought and a sharp jolt traveled through her towards that treacherous spot between her legs.

No! She must not think of him that way. To Jon, she was his sister. He would be as horrified to hear of her fevered imaginings as he had been that day at the pools. If she loved him, her love for him should be good and pure. Not this awful, dishonorable thing. She continued to rub at her thighs furiously, until the skin turned raw and it burned.

It took hours for Sansa to gather up the courage to light the candles in her chamber and still more time passed before she was able to face her reflection in the looking glass. She reached for her grey fish pattern dress and the wide leather girdle. She wrapped the straps around her shoulders and back and pulled at the closure around her waist tighter than she had ever done before. By the time she was done, she could barely breathe over her encasing but it felt good to be grounded once more, as if she had somehow managed to pull herself together from scattered pieces.

As she glanced at herself in the looking glass, she could almost see the fraying at the edges where she had been shattered. The lines in between her brows that had been there since the day she had stood on the battlements and looked at her father’s head on a pike. The slight jittering in her neck, her pulse ready to pounce out of control if anyone approached too fast, the fear of being struck still lingering in her limbs. The pull of the muscles around the corners of her lips, ready to stretch in screams of agony as they did anytime Ramsay came for her.

They had called her beautiful once. All of them … her mother and father, her Septa and handmaidens. She had even believed it at one time. She had forgotten the feeling of gratitude and appreciation that had accompanied her since childhood any time she would see her reflection. She remembered loving to have her hair brushed and seeing the orange tinges shinning in the candle light. She would stretch out her neck every day, shaking her head from one side to the other after being told that a long neck was the mark of a true lady. She would even pinch her cheeks to make them flush because she liked the way it made her blue eyes shine even brighter.

It had faded now … her beauty … if it had been there in the first place. It was only pieces that stared back at her, stitched together haphazardly. Stiff and hard, like a doll discarded in a chest somewhere for far too long … Dull, truly. That’s what she was.

She turned her back on the looking glass and headed for the door but when she opened it, a small white scroll slipped in between the cracks and fell to the ground.

She stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to make of it. _Arya_ , she thought before picking it up and unwrapping it quickly. The more she read, the tighter her grip on the paper became and a sharp pain settled in her stomach.

***

_“Lady Stark, I think it would be in both our interests to talk. I will be in the Godswood, at the hour of the wolf. I believe the place is already familiar to you.”_

Arya’s voice was barely a whisper but it still sent shivers down Sansa’s back. It seemed to echo off the empty walls in her chamber. Every shadow lurked in the corner, staring back at her. Varys’ little birds … They were everywhere. Even at Winterfell. Even in Arya’s room, where barely any object of permanence remained. Her sister lived as if she was ready to leave at any moment. Her clothes folded on the chair by the fire instead of kept in a chest. Her satchel placed neatly on the window sill. Her dagger and sword at the foot of her bed.

 “And you say he knows who Jon is?”

Sansa nodded. “I think so,” she said, shaking. “The way he spoke about Jon being a true born … He didn’t just bring that into the conversation. He wanted to see my reaction.”

“And you gave it to him.” Arya tone was flat and emotionless but her eyes held her fast with unspoken words of accusation and Sansa withered under the steely glare. She nodded reluctantly and swallowed hard. She had been careless. There was no use denying it. Despite everything she had been through, she still had not learned. She fell straight into Varys’ trap.

 “No matter. Whatever he knows, he won’t know it long,” Arya said shrugging.

Sansa watched as if in a daze as she calmly went to retrieve her Valyrian dagger. She secured it around her waist and moved to head for the door, no sign of hesitation on her face.

It still unnerved her to see her sister so calm in the face of murder. She wondered if Arya dreamed of her victims as she did of Ramsay and Littlefinger. Sometimes she would even see Joffrey’s face, purple and twisted, his eyes bloodshot as he died with his hands wrapped around his neck.

As Arya walked passed her, Sansa managed to gather her wits about her enough to pull her back. “Stop!” she said, her voice shrill with fear.  “What if he told someone already?”

Arya looked down at where she had gripped her arm tightly and pulled it out before rolling her eyes. “I’ll make sure to ask him.”

She grabbed hold of the door handle and Sansa had to lean over and close it.

“Arya, wait!” she said. “We have to think about this. We can’t just go around killing people.”

“Wait? You want to wait?” Arya’s eyes were burning despite the dead calm in her voice and Sansa could see the twitching in her neck. “Jon’s life might be in danger while _we wait_!”

“Listen to me! Please!” Sansa begged. “Varys wouldn’t put himself at risk this way if he planned on telling the dragon queen. There must be another reason.”

“And you’re willing to risk Jon’s life in order to find out that reason.”

Arya’s simple statement, the lack of any doubt in her voice twisted Sansa’s stomach into knots. Her face remained unmoved and she lifted up her chin defiantly. “Of course not. But there might be benefits to hearing him out.” She hated herself for how cold her voice sounded and even more for the way Arya was looking at her.

It wasn’t anger that twisted her sister anymore. It was disappointment. It was written plain as day on her face. After a moment, she released the door handle and turned back, heading for the window. She reached for her satchel, swinging it over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re right. Varys could have told someone already,” Arya said, fastening her sword on the opposite side from the dagger. “Killing him would be pointless. I made Jon promise to say not today to the God of death and I’m going to make sure he keeps that promise.”

Sansa’s chin wobbled and she began twisting and pulling at her fingers. “Arya …” she said, as her sister passed her by and opened the door again.

“It’s all right, Sansa,” she said. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. You never loved Jon. He was only ever your bastard half-brother. Now he’s not even that.”

Arya’s words seemed to tear at her insides worse than blades. “How could you say such a thing? Of course I care …”

“Not enough to protect him. Not even enough to say good-bye to him.”

Sansa bit her lip hard, her eyes falling to the ground. _I couldn’t bare it_ , she wanted to say. _I couldn’t bear to see him leave with her. I love him, don’t you see?_ But how could she? Arya would never understand. She’d think she had gone mad.

“He never wanted to be King in the North, you know,” Arya finally said. “He’s only fighting this war for us. He’d die for me and Bran … and you. Stay here and make your deals with the spider, if you want. I’m going to be with my brother.”

Arya slammed the door behind her and the sound made Sansa jump. Her eyes had already weld up with tears and she let them fall now, certain that no one could see her. She only allowed herself a few moments before wiping furiously at her cheeks and leaving the chamber.

By then the day had turned dreary and terrible. It was still early in the morning and huge gusts of wind were rattling the wooden panels of the large kitchen windows. The snow storm raged outside lashing back and forth at everything that moved. Inside, it was warm at least, the fires burning high and steaming pots bubbling along above the flames.

Mistress Alberda, the cook, was screaming at the maids over the stew and soup, her anger even fiercer than the storm. “Others take you, girl! Can’ y’ see you’re burnin’ the onions?” The poor girl scurried out of her way as she launched herself over the pot and began stirring forcefully.

When Sansa had first brought her desk into the kitchens, Mistress Alberda would stop herself every time she meant to curse or shout. She’d curtsy awkwardly and mutter an apology, despite Sansa’s protestations that it did not matter. But as time had passed, she seemed to take less and less notice of her, hidden away at the back of the room, which was just as well.

She was grateful for the noise and the people, truly. It made her slip beneath the mask of Lady of Winterfell with ease, as if donning a cloak. The Lady of Winterfell was not anguished over her sister’s departure or the scroll she had received in the midst of night. She did not dream, or yearn or want and she was certainly not desperately longing for the man she still called brother to everyone but herself.

The Lady of Winterfell instead prepared food stores and supply chains and she was currently checking the castle’s treasury, her finger going down the list calmly and efficiently. When she thought of it that way, Sansa found it easier to concentrate even on the numbers. She had never liked them as a child and the anxiety of having Maester Luwin go over her work and find mistake after mistake had only made her dislike them even more.

If she was being honest, there was no need to bother with the ledgers. She knew all the numbers by heart, having poured over them for nearly a moon, opening them every other day, hoping that the results would be different. The terrifying truth was that Winterfell had almost exhausted its treasury. The Boltons had not left it in good standing to begin with and between feeding and clothing an army of almost a hundred thousand strong with little help from anyone else, there was not much left.

The Northern Lords had made it clear that they would not offer aid to the armies fighting at Karhold. They did not relent even after she had released Lord Glover from the dungeons. His voice had been the loudest in refusing to help savages and tyrants, as he called them. Many had taken their leave then. Only Lord Glover, the Little Bear, Lord Manderly and the Knights of the Vale remained.

It would have been better if Jon had given the castle to one of them instead of pardoning Alys Karstark and Ned Umber. He could have placed them under their guardianship at least and forced the lords to follow their own interests, if not the interests of the North.

 _Once the cow’s been milked, there’s no squirting the cream back up her udders._ She needed to find another way to feed Jon’s army. The choice was simple, she knew well. She would need to start selling what possessions could be gathered from Winterfell. All the things that had populated her childhood, the things that reminded her of those she had lost. It seemed survival always demanded shedding all that you were until only the very bones remained.

“Sansa, are you well?”

Theon’s voice snapped her out of her reverie and she found him standing next to her, looking down with concern. The black eye Jon had given him had almost faded completely but he still winced slightly whenever he walked, from the bruised ribs he had left him with.

“Yes,” she said, giving him a polite smile. “Just lost in thought.”

He continued to look at her but she averted her eyes. More and more, she found herself doing that. The guilt overwhelmed her at times, yet she could not help it. Something had changed between them the day she asked him to marry her and the ease with which she had thought of him had evaporated. Even his eyes on her felt unsettling and prying. As if he could see through her dress, down to the very scars Ramsay had etched onto her skin. Every time she spoke, her words seemed to turn back into the screams Ramsay had dragged out of her the night he had forced Theon to watch.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually,” she said, standing up and heading for the brazier in the corner of the room. She brought her hands close to the fire, letting the warmth back into her frozen fingers. The flames hurt as they rushed to meet her skin but she kept them there still. “I need your help.”

“Of course,” he said, a little too quickly, rushing to her side. “Anything you need.”

She stepped away from him almost instinctively, forcing him to stop and her arm wrapped around the griddle around her waist.

He looked confused for a moment but thankfully he did not say anything, bowing his head instead. It was easier that way, when he wasn’t looking at her.

She kept her voice low and as soft as she could, even if the shakiness made it sound harsher than she intended. “Is your boat at White Harbor?”

“Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“Are you planning on using it to go after your uncle?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s nothing I can do against him now. He has an entire fleet. Besides,” he said, looking at her. “I won’t leave you alone in the middle of a war.”

Sansa dropped her eyes and began twisting her fingers. _I’ll protect you. I promise_. The words rung in her ears and even the memory of them warmed her in ways that Theon’s pledge could not. “I appreciate that, Theon. Truly I do. But we need food and you’re the only one who can get it for us.”

“You want me to ferry it for you?” He sounded disappointed but she chose not to focus on it, nodding instead.

“But with Lady Brienne and Arya gone,” he continued, his voice hesitant. “You’ll be alone.” He took a few steps towards her and barely brushed his fingers against her hand before she pulled it away quickly, balling it into a fist at her side.

He stepped back immediately. “Sansa … what is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If something has changed … If you want to …”

“Nothing has changed,” she lied. Her voice sounded too sharp and she took a deep breath before coming closer to him. “But this isn’t the time to think on that. What we need now is food.” Her hand shook slightly when she reached out and touched him on the shoulder and she prayed he did not notice. “Please, Theon,” she said. “I need your help.”

He sighed deeply, blinking over and over again before looking up and straightening his back. “All right, Sansa. If that’s what you need, then that’s what I’ll do.”

She smiled at him gratefully but before she could thank him, the doors to the kitchen burst open and one of the guards rushed in, making Sansa withdraw her hand from Theon’s arm as if it burned.

“Lady Sansa,” the man said, approaching fast. “Maester Wolken has urgent need of you.”

He looked alarmed and agitated. “What is the matter?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “He wouldn’t say. But he’s locked himself in the Sept and won’t come out.”

Sansa began walking rapidly, Theon and the guard following her at pace. She stepped out into the cold air and the wind blew through her cloak, forcing her to wrap it tightly around her body, as her boots trudged through ankle deep snow.

“Some of the town folk fell ill during the night,” the guard shouted over the howling of the wind. “We’ve been hauling water and firewood for the sick all through the night.”

“Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

“The maester thought it was nothing serious. It was just the cold and lack of food, he said.”

It was a small distance from the Great Keep to the Sept. Sansa’s father had built the rounded structure so her mother could walk to it whenever she liked but through the raging gale, it seemed to be taking an eternity.

By the time she climbed the few stairs leading to the bolted iron door, cold tears streamed down her face from where the snows lashed against her skin and eyes. She knocked on the door forcefully and shouted. “Maester Wolken, open the door!”

She could hear nothing of what was happening on the other side for the winds and she banged her fists against the iron harder than before. “Open the door or I will have it torn down!”

“My lady, no!” the faint voice finally came. “You cannot do that!”

“If people are sick,” Sansa said, “you will need us to help you.”

“It is not the cold, my lady,” he replied. “Two are already dead. More will follow today. This is the plague.”

Sansa’s hand froze against the iron door. She looked at Theon and the guard. Both had turned whiter than the snows. _Gods! What have I done?_ She had brought death to Winterfell.

***

The Shivers, Maester Wolken had called the sickness. It was a name familiar across the Seven kingdoms, although they had never had it in the North, to Sansa’s recollection. Men and women alike would boast about their strong constitution, unlike the weak Southerners who died of the rat’s disease in the winter of 59 AC.

Maester Luwin had called their boastfulness misguided when Sansa was a child. The Shivers, he had said, never took hold in the North because the population was sparse compared to the other kingdoms but Northerners could succumb to it just as easily as any other men.

He had been proven right. It was late at night and ten more of Maester Wolken’s sick had died. The Silent Sisters had taken charge of them, moving in and out of the Sept and burning the bodies at the maester’s insistence.

Everyone else kept their distance. Even from the courtyard, they could still hear the moans and coughs of the sick and Sansa had no choice but to tell the Northern lords what had occurred. Maester Wolken had advised that all those who had not been in direct contact with the sick should be evacuated as soon as possible and luckily Lord Glover and Lord Manderly had agreed to take on the servants and guests of Winterfell.

She sat at the table, in her chamber, starring at the flames, tapping the scroll she had received on the wood over and over again. The hour of the wolf was slowly creeping in. She was still fully clothed, her cloak fastened around her neck. Still she vacillated. Was it even worth going to speak to Varys now? In all likelihood, everyone that remained within the castle walls would be dead in a week. What harm could a dead spider do? _Send a raven to Karhold and get Jon killed._

“If you still want to go, my lady, we should leave now,” Ser Davos said, turning from the fire to look at her.

She had planned on facing Varys alone but as the hour approached, she found herself calling Ser Davos to her chamber instead. Arya’s fury at her suggestion that they should talk to him made her doubt. If there was anyone still left in Winterfell that truly cared for Jon, it would be Ser Davos. He had saved his life, after all.

“What do you think of Lod Varys, Ser Davos? You spent quite some time with him on Dragonstone.”

“I couldn’t quite say, my lady,” he said, folding his hands at the back. “There’s somethin’ not right about a man who spends his life lurking in the shadows. And he did quite a bit of that at Dragonstone.”

“So you think my sister was right? Should I just kill him?” The words rolled off her tongue far too easily and it sent a shiver down her spine.

“I don’t know. She might be.”

Ser Davos rubbed his forehead and looked to the flames for a moment before coming closer to her. “What I do know is this: The brothers of the Night’s Watch thought they were right too. They were afraid Jon Snow would destroy everything they cared about and they stabbed him to protect it. Bu’ they were wrong. They killed a good man. They never gave him a chance to prove himself and they paid the price for it.”

Littlefinger would call Ser Davos a foolish old man, Sansa knew well. Better to destroy a man before he had a chance to destroy you, he would have said. But Littlefinger was dead and it was those whom he had destroyed that had come back to haunt him in the end. He had taught her to see the lack of honor in those who pretended themselves pure but he had never taught her to see the good in those who seemed to lack it.

“Would Jon have gone to talk to him?” she asked.

“That doesn’ matter, does it? He’s not here. Ya’ are.”

Sansa nodded slowly. Yes, she was.

“Perhaps you should take your knife with you just in case, Ser Davos,” she said, standing up. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a fighter.”

The man smiled with what Sansa thought was relief. “Neither am I, my lady. But I carry one on my belt just the same,” he said, patting his holster. “Between the two of us, I think we can handle a spider.”

 

The night was far darker than it had been until then. They made their way through the Godswood with Ser Davos walking ahead, holding the torch close to the ground to guide their way. They were just coming upon the clearing but Sansa could see nothing but pitch black.

Ser Davos turned around waving the torch in all directions and yet there was no one there. It wasn’t until she reached the weirwood that the crunching of the snow announced the spider’s presence.

“Thank you for coming, Lady Stark,” he said.

She turned around just in time to see him emerge from the shadows of the trees and into the torch’s flame. She took a breath before she spoke, trying to still her nerves.

“It seems the long night agrees with you, Lord Varys” she said.

“Yes,” he admitted, a strange smile on his face. “Whispers only grow louder under the cover of darkness, when the people speaking them think no one can hear.”

Sansa’s stomach twisted in knots. Had he been hiding there all this time? Listening to everything they had said? Had he stood in the shadows watching Jon’s pain when Bran told him of his parents? The thought made her angry and she raised her chin defiantly, her mouth twisted with disgust. “Then how can you be sure no one is listening to us now?”

“The only person dangerous enough to overhear us was Missandei of Narth. And she’s currently locked in the Sept, with the rest of Maester Wolken’s … invalids.”

Her blood ran cold at his words and she found it hard to draw breath.

“You sent her there?” Ser Davos shouted angrily, edging closer to her.

“No,” the spider sighed, walking towards them. “She went on her own, before I could stop her. She’s always been a gentle soul, ready to help at the slightest provocation and she’s been left rather idle since her mistress left for Karhold. A babe in the woods, I’m afraid.”

“You do know what is in that Sept, don’t you?” Sansa asked.

“Yes, my lady, I’m afraid I do. The Shivers visited Lys during my childhood several times. It is not a pleasant way to die.”

“One would think, knowing what you know that you would have left by now. Why are you still here? What is it you want, Lord Varys?”

“To set a wrong right. Daenerys Targaryen would have come to Westeros with her dragons and her armies whether I helped her or not. But I did help her and now she’s here, when the realm is at its weakest.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to save the realm?” Ser Davos said. “Isn’t that what ya’ and Tyrion Lannister kept tellin’ us on Dragonstone? Ya called her the best chance Westeros had, if I remember correctly.”

“And I believed it. The Seven Kingdoms need a ruler who is strong enough to wage war but wise enough to make peace. I found the first but I’m afraid I failed on the latter.”

“You want Jon to marry her,” Sansa said, her voice barely a whisper. _An alliance would make sense. Together they’d be difficult to defeat._ The thought made her sick.

“Marry her?” Varys said, surprised. “Oh, no. That must never happen. Since she’s been here, I’ve seen her burn food and men alike. Tyrion and Jon Snow have had to convince her not to raze cities to the ground and melt castles on more than one occasion. Her Dothraki have already caused havoc in the North. Daenerys Targareyen must never rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“So what is it that ya’ are proposing?” Ser Davos asked, his voice hard with impatience.

“The only logical solution. Another ruler. One strong enough to oppose her and with the right family name to ascend the steps of the Iron Throne.”

Sansa gave out a bitter laugh. “You’ve spent all this time listening to whispers, Lord Varys but you know next to nothing about the character of the man you wish to betray your queen for. Jon would never kill his own blood to sit on a throne.”

Varys nodded. “Your cousin is an honorable man, to be sure. But I have seen him put the wellbeing of his people above all else. Above his honor. Above his pride and ambition. Above even,” he said, measuring her from head to toe, “his own desires. And I don’t believe the dragon queen will leave him much choice in the matter.”

Sansa looked at Ser Davos. His face and posture had relaxed slightly but he did not seem convinced. No more than she was.

“You must forgive our reticence, Lord Varys,” she said, “but as a man who has betrayed two rulers by now and planning on forsaking a third, you do not come across as trustworthy.”

“It is true. I plotted against Robert Baratheon when it became clear he had no interest in being king. Jofferey Baratheon, on the other hand,” he said. “Well … you perhaps understand my decision better than anyone.”

“What would make Jon different, then?”

“My loyalty has never been to a king or a queen. I am a servant of the realm. And I will do everything in my power to defend it. If a ruler should come who is strong enough to fight for the people, then I will dedicate my life to his service.”

They were pretty words, Sansa had to admit. But words were wind and she had seen far too many speak far better to be moved by them. “If that is the truth, why did you not speak to Jon before he left for Karhold?”

“Your cousin is a brave man. Just like your father,” he said. “And just like your father, he despises the game, even when he is forced to play it. I suppose it is understandable. They’ve always had their swords to keep them safe, even when those falter on occasion, as your father was unlucky enough to find out. But it is not a luxury you and I have, is it? We survive by our wits.”

Sansa nodded. “We do,” she said. “But as a player in the game, Lord Varys, you must know that you need to offer more than promises of loyalty. So what can you offer me that would make it worth the risk of trusting you?”

Lord Varys smiled then. The first honest smile he had ever given her. “I can offer you what I offered the dragon queen and all those that came before: information.” His hands moved to the small of his back as he inched closer and spoke in a low tone. “I have it on good authority that Jaime Lannister has rounded the Lannister forces and joined arms with your uncle, Edmure Tully. They’re on the march as we speak, heading North.”

Sansa’s mask faltered and she bit her lip. “To attack us?”

“That is certainly what your Northern Lords will tell you. But my little birds sing a different song. They say that Jaime Lannister has broken from his sister, Cersei. He means to travel North and honor the pledge his queen made to your cousin in King’s Landing. When he comes, it would perhaps be best to speak to him before leaving him to freeze in the snows.”

He turned to leave then, only to take a few steps before stopping and looking back. “Ah,” he said, retrieving a parchment from his long sleeves and offering it to her. “I almost forgot. I thought you might be interested in this.”

Sansa took the parchment but she could barely make out anything on the paper, dark as it was. “What is it?”

“The journal entry your friend, Samwell Tarly, found at the Citadel is, without a doubt, an interesting bit of gossip. Unfortunately, it holds no real value in the eyes of the law. This, however, is the official record of the marriage between Rhaegar Targareyen and Lyanna Stark, signed by the High Septon himself.” With that he bowed and took his leave.

At the light of the torch, Sansa and Ser Davos read the parchment announcing the marriage between her aunt and the man they had once believed had raped her. _Let it be known_ , the High Septon wrote, _that any progeny that should come from this glorious union shall be the blood of princes and, as such, successors of the crown._

“Do you trust him?” Ser Davos asked, after a while.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Sansa replied. “Luckily, with the plague here, I will have plenty of time to find out.”

“Ya’ do not plan to leave Winterfell on the morrow, my lady? Ya’ must! It is far too dangerous to stay here.”

She looked at him then and smiled as warmly as her frozen cheeks would allow. “I am the lady of Winterfell,” she said. “This is my home and these are my people. I cannot abandon them.”

Ser Davos gazed at her with sad eyes and grabbed hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly. For the first time, in a long time, Sansa did not feel the need to pull away. “They are lucky to have ya’,” he said before clearing his throat gruffly and pulling back. “Oh well. I survived Flea Bottom. The shivers can’ be worse than that.”

“And you would survive them, I am sure,” she said, “but you are not staying in Winterfell. You will leave in the morning, with Theon.”

“What?” he said, his brow furrowed. “I am sorry, my lady, but I can’ do that. I will not leave ya’ here alone, and with the Lord spider on top of it. Jon Snow would have my head and be right for it!”

She laughed, finding the thought of Jon’s anger strangely comforting. “You will tell him I forbid him to harm you. And that I insisted you go.”

“My lady …”

“You were a smuggler, Ser Davos. If we are to survive this war, we need you to be a smuggler again. You are the only who knows how to get food to a castle under siege. Besides …,” she said, looking down.

“Ya’ want me to keep an eye on the Greyjoy boy.”

Sansa bit her lip but nodded. “I believe Theon to be a good man. Still, he betrayed Robb who was like a brother to him. He laid siege to Winterfell. If the time ever comes, he might falter again and he can’t. Jon’s armies are dependent on his ship and I trust that you will know how to steer him in the right direction.”

It took the better part of the walk back to the keep for Ser Davos to finally agree but at the end of it all, Sansa found herself in the empty courtyard, all alone. In the distance the moans of the sick echoed through the air and the winds began to howl as if mingling in a strange and desperate song.

At the end of all this, one of two things would happen. Either death would defeat life and all her troubles would come to an end. Or life would win out. Despite it all, she was not afraid. She was the Stark in Winterfell.


End file.
